


The Valley of Queer

by mycake



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF John, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Big Brother Mycroft, Implied Drug Abuse, John is a Saint, John-centric, M/M, Mycroft's Ring, Protective Mycroft, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock's Violin, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 50
Words: 170,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycake/pseuds/mycake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Teenlock. Recently orphaned John Watson is new to London; attending Barts. On the eve of his 19th birthday his entire world is turned on its ear. John is suddenly and unwillingly drawn into the larger than life world of the Holmes brothers and is liable to make every mistake imaginable. While John is trying to piece together the shattered fragments of his life, time is tocking away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson was whirling down the side streets of London in the back seat of his new best mate's clown car. He was pressed up against the door, praying to God he'd make it out alive. Every time they'd hit a dip in the road, the unfortunate girl on his lap would hit her head on the ceiling, and John's heart would lurch forward in his chest, knowing the door could give out at any moment and he could be sent toppling out onto the street. 

They had jammed eight warm bodies into a four-seater car and Mike was driving like a blind man strung out on crack. He'd only had a few, yet he couldn't seem to stay within the lines or within the speed limit. In the back seat with John was some guy they called Anderson, who was absolutely enamoured with the two young ladies that were sitting on his lap. His girlfriend, Sally, was stuck on John's lap and wasn't too happy about her supposed boyfriend sensually running his hands up the two girl's backs. 

John clenched his eyes shut and muttered a silent prayer. Mike saw his despair through the rear view mirror and started swerving on the road, trying to fetch a flask out of his coat pocket.

"Molly, be a dear, John'll be needing this. Calm his nerves."

Mike tossed the flask to Molly and she looked back at John with a soft, sympathetic smile. Molly was on yet another bloke's lap: Dimmock was his name, _or something of the sort,_ John thought to himself. All of the introductions went so fast, he hardly had the time to commit their names to memory. John noticed Mike glaring at Dimmock whenever his hands ventured a bit too close to Molly's chest. _There must be something going on there._

Molly handed John the flask which he clutched on to tightly, hoping a couple swigs of it would put an end to his terror and loosen things up a bit. He twisted open the cap and found it was filled to the brim. A bit sloshed out onto his hand and Sally's leggings. 

"Oi! Careful wiv it. They'll think I was drunk driving," Mike laughed.

_No Mike. A drunk driver would drive loads better than you are right now. By God, I don't want to die! I'm far too young to die. Why did I ever let them force me into this God forsaken flying metal death trap? "Oh my God, John! You've never been clubbing! We have to go NOW!" Yes. Such a great idea on a school night! Let's all pile into a four person car, zoom down the street going mach 5, and die in a firey car crash the day before John Watson's nineteenth birthday! It'll be such a fucking laugh!_

John clenched his eyes shut once more and took a large swig of alcohol. He hacked and his eyes began to water as the fire rose in his chest.

_Whiskey._

Sally gave him a snide look, snarl and everything. He took a smaller swig and gulped.

_Honey, you ain't much to look at yourself._ He thought to himself as he twisted the cap shut.

He let out an overly dramatic sigh of relief as Mike pulled into the car-park.

Sally started reaching over for the door handle before the car came to a full stop.

"Let me off this crazy train!" she exclaimed as she fell out on to the pavement. "You!" she shouted at Anderson who held up his hands in defence.

Dimmock shifted Molly off his lap and gave Mike an apologetic look as he left the car. Mike turned back and gave John a smug grin.

Mike had this smile that John couldn't stand. He grinned as if every action he made controlled the fate of the universe. He was a cocky bastard but John hadn't met a nicer bloke in his short time in London. They were in the same program together at Barts and John saw him lurking about all the time. He'd only recently worked up the confidence to say hello and invite him over. Now they were practically best mates, going out clubbing on a school night, having a drink, and just generally being reckless. For the first time in a long time, John felt his own age. It made his heart flutter a bit, knowing he might get into trouble that night. 

John passed the flask back to Mike who chugged the firey Whiskey down eagerly. He smacked his lips and let out a long and satisfied, "Ah". John didn't know how he could drink it straight up, no chaser. John wasn't much of a drinker himself, he'd only been drunk once, had a few beers here and there, sipped church wine before that.

Mike passed the flask to Molly who swirled it around and laughed.

"Ain't much left," she smiled and looked over John who was a bit red in the face already. Mike laughed a low and hearty laugh.

"C'mon! They won't be waiting for us forever. Gotta sneak one of the birds in. Won't let anyone under eighteen in."

John was relieved they weren't having to sneak him in. It was bad enough he was there on a Wednesday night, he didn't need to be breaking the law as well.

John fell out of the car, stumbled a bit, regained his composure, and made his way for the club's entrance. Mike slammed the car doors shut and locked up. He caught up with John and gave him a hard slap on the back. They walked side by side, leaning into one another.

"John, tonight's your lucky night," he proclaimed, delivering another harsh slap to John's back.

"Well you're wrong there," John slurred. "Nothing happens to me. Especially nothing lucky."

They made it to the entrance where one of the girls was being heckled by the bouncer. Mike shrugged and mouthed, _"Sorry."_ as they walked past. John approached the next available bouncer and handed him his ID. The bouncer lifted his eyebrow and gave John a look over as he handed his ID back to him.

They walked into the dark entryway and John grabbed a hold of Molly's arm.

"How come that guy gave me a look?" he asked. John looked over Molly who was in a red tube top dress with matching pumps and cherry red lipstick.

"You're not exactly in club attire," she giggled.

John looked over his outfit. Jeans, white t-shirt, and a leather jacket.

_What kind of club is this? Club attire... load of crock._

John's chest was suddenly hit with a loud sonic-like boom of the club's music. He winced and grabbed his ears. They felt like they were going to burst.

His eyes began to adjust to the dark club and the flashing strobe lights which made everyone look like they were dancing in slow motion. John instantly noticed what Molly was talking about. Every bloke in the joint was wearing a button down and skin-tight trousers.

They were all bumping and grinding against girls, feeling them up, and showing off and John was suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

He knew he needed to be much more drunk to enjoy himself.

For one: he didn't dance, not even at weddings. It was going to take some serious liquid courage to get him moving to the music. For two: he had absolutely no confidence with ladies. He had been shot down far too many times in his short life and it broke his heart every time.

"C'mon! I'll buy you a drink! What's your poison?" Mike shouted over the music.

"I don't know! Anything!" John shouted back.

"Come on!" Molly yelled and dragged John by the hand out on to the dance floor. They met up with some familiar faces from the car and Molly started dancing around like a pro.

John stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and looked around.

_By God... Is that a cage? Better not stick me in there._ He thought to himself, looking at the iron cage in the middle of the dance floor. 

John scanned the crowd and his eyes locked on a guy who was staring right at him. He was tall, with dark curly hair, and a stoic expression on his face. John felt a jolt when the guy turned away after noticing John looking back.

_Was that guy checking me out?_

John brushed the idea off. Mike appeared out of thin air with John's drink. John grabbed it and looked it over. It looked a bit fruity.

Mike pulled John in close to shout into his ear, "Didn't know what you liked. It's got a bit of everythin' in it!" Mike let go and raised his glass. "Cheers mate."

John took a sip, it was a good mix of sweet and creamy, made it easy to suck it down.

"Go easy on it!" Mike laughed.

John finished and started feeling a bit tipsy, but he still wasn't feeling the music. His group members were laughing and dancing around all suggestively. It appeared Sally and Anderson had patched things up, going by the way they grinding up against one another.

John looked away and he noticed that guy again, disappearing into the crowd. He had on a purple shirt that stood out in the sea of black button downs.

Everyone was dancing like sex-crazed animals and the place reeked of sweat, booze, and cheap cigarettes.

John turned and jumped when he saw he was face to face with Molly. She mouthed something. John motioned he couldn't hear. She leaned over and shouted into his ear, "Looks like you could use another drink!" 

John nodded and shouted, "Yeah!" She grabbed him by the hand and led him through the throng of horny beasts. They made it to a clearing and John let out a sigh of relief. She continued leading him by the hand, up to the bar. John set down his empty glass and reached for his pocketbook. Molly shook her head and took out a twenty.

John wanted to protest but she had her attention on the bar tender. She bartered with him and showed more than a little cleavage for two free shots. She handed one over to John.

"Cheers!" They shouted and knocked them back. John suddenly felt light headed. Molly handed him his mixed drink.

_My that was quick._

He started sipping. It was just so delicious, he couldn't help but gulp it down. He saw Molly mouth something and then he was being led by the hand again, through the mosh pit and back to the group. They had formed a circle in the middle of the dance floor and were laughing at Mike who was showing off his break dancing skills, or lack thereof. John found it quite funny. Mike stood up and threw out his arms as if to say 'come at me bro'. He was sufficiently sloshed and so was John.

John was laughing uncontrollably and bumping into people. He even bobbed his head a little to the music.

"Bout time," Mike said to Molly.

John felt the room start spinning. He handed his glass off to Mike who immediately started drinking it for him. John stumbled forward and grabbed Mike by the shoulder. He leaned in close to his ear.

"Gotta take a piss. I-I'll be right back," John slurred. Mike slapped him on the back a few times.

"Have fun!" he shouted.

John rolled his neck and looked into the massive crowd of people. He stumbled forward and tried walking through them like a beaded curtain, only to end up being bounced around like a pinball. He brushed his junk up against at least twenty different people's bums. He was like a salmon swimming up stream, being swatted at by grizzly bears.

He bumped into a couple and was shoved away harshly. Not wanting to start a fight, he put up his hands and slurred a, "Sorry".

He was certain there had to be a clearing coming up. He grabbed someone by the hips and scooted them over.

He was a man on a mission. He found the clearing and was met with a cool rush of air. He sucked in a deep breath and revelled in his accomplishment.

He eyed the Gents room and weaved his way over to the door. He read the sign twice to make sure it wasn't the ladies before pushing the door open.

John stepped inside and his eyes stung from the bright fluorescent lighting and the shockingly white floor to ceiling tiles.

The loo was absolutely packed. John spotted a couple making out in the corner and a pair of knees under one of the stalls.

_Lucky fellow._

He went for the first empty urinal he saw and gave no mind to any man codes as he rubbed elbows with his neighbours. He undid his zip, whipped it out, and let out an epic piss that would rival Niagra falls in sheer magnitude.

He groaned loudly at the wonderful release. He shook out the last drops and stumbled back. He stuffed himself back in his jeans and did up his zip. He gave a salute to his unfortunate neighbours and staggered toward the sinks.

He looked into the mirror and laughed at his own reflection. His eyes were glazed over and he was quite red in the face. He continued to laugh as he left the lavatory, rounded the corner, and bumped into something solid.

He let out an "Oof" and near fell backwards.

The mystery guy in the purple shirt turned around and looked down at John.

"Oh shit," John said looking up into his piercing green-blue eyes. He felt a stirring in his groin.

_Kiss him._

Without a second thought, John reached up and grabbed the back of the mystery man's neck and pulled him down to crush their lips together. He held him tight and titled his head to the side and willed the guy's lips open with his tongue. He dove his tongue in, exploring the other bloke's mouth and started to groan as he ground up against him. He let his hand slide down the guy's back and splayed his fingers as he gripped the other boy's bum. The other boy grabbed John's sides and drew him in closer. They stumbled together, fighting for dominance with their tongues.

The taller boy pulled back and looked down at him and smiled. John pulled him in once more and laced his fingers together behind the taller boy's neck. John hummed as they started gently snogging, breaking each kiss with a smacking sound.

_This is amazing._

John started to push the other boy backwards and against a pillar. He unlaced his fingers and started exploring the other boy's chest with his hands. He was thin yet well built. John undid the guy's top shirt buttons and pulled his collar to the side, revealing his neck. John leaned forward and latched on to his soft skin. The other boy gasped and moved his hands on to John's arse and pulled him in tight.

John nuzzled and sucked at his neck before biting softly. The other bloke looked around and then pushed John back. John looked up. The guy pointed to the back door and John nodded.

They stepped outside into the cool September night's air.

John was thrown against the wall and they immediately resumed their endeavours. They were in a heated and passionate kiss when John started feeling the other boy's firm member rubbing against his leg. John instinctively reached out and started groping him through his trousers.

He had never been with another guy before. It felt amazing being thrown against a wall and forcefully snogged. The other boy was rutting against his hand, moaning into their kiss. Suddenly, the guy dropped to his knees. He made quick work of John's zip and slid down John's jeans slightly, revealing his underpants. The boy stroked John's bulge.

"Oh, fuck," John moaned as the guy fished out his cock and started stroking it out in the open. John threw his head against the brick wall and closed his eyes. He felt the boy's warm wet tongue slide up his shaft and circle the tip of his cock's head. He groaned loudly as the boy's warm wet lips wrapped around the tip of his penis. He sucked hard and John near came undone.

The boy grabbed John's arse hard and what he did next nearly caused John to scramble up the wall. He roughly took all of John's length and let him hit the back of his throat. John put his hands on the guy's shoulders and clutched them firmly. The boy slid back slightly only to plunge down again. John bucked his hips forward. With one last thrust forward, John came undone. He came loud and hard down the guy's throat.

The boy pulled away and they both panted heavily. He helped John with his jeans and John gave him a hand to help him up. The boy stumbled and fell into John, pinning him against the wall once more. He looked into the other boy's eyes and they both started giggling. They exchanged a brief kiss.

"Come on." The boy laced his fingers in John's and pulled him back into the club.

John had tunnel vision. The only clear thing he could see was the mysterious guy leading him through the club. The boy looked back at John every so often and smiled.

_Those amazing eyes._

They made it to the front of the club and exited. The boy pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered John one.

"No thanks," John said. The boy just smiled as he lit his smoke and took in a long drag.

"So what's your name?" The guy asked in a low baritone that made John's heart flutter.

"Uh..." John thought. "John," he laughed. "John Watson."

"John Watson." The boy smirked. He took in another long drag and exhaled. "So John Watson. Coffee?"

"I don't... drink coffee."

The other boy snorted. "How about coffee at my place?" he tried.

"Yeah... I could do that," John smiled. The mystery guy took out his mobile and phoned for a cab. John stumbled back into the wall and started laughing. "Never been with a bloke before."

"Yeah well... best make the night a memorable one then."

"Shit, I'm not sure I'm gonna remember this five minutes from now," John chuckled.

"Yeah, how about this?" The boy leaned forward and took John's breath away with another kiss.

"Mm," John hummed. The boy broke the kiss and stepped back to give John a good look. "God, you're fucking gorgeous," John said wrapping his arms around the other bloke's torso.

"Gorgeous?" The boy snorted.

"Fucking gorgeous," John corrected. He pulled the guy tight and held him steady. He pressed his face against his chest and sighed. "Old spice, must be fate."

"Why's that?"

"It's what I wear." John took in a deep breath. "Smells better on you," he laughed.

"Cab's here."

John looked over. "Shit, that's fast!" he remarked.

"It's been twenty minutes."

"Has it?"

_Fuck. Losing track of time, must have blacked out. Oh shit, I'm going to some random arse bloke's place. I hope he's not a serial killer._

John looked into the guy's eyes once more.

_Not with eyes like that. He couldn't harm a lamb._

He allowed the boy to lead him by the hand into the back seat of the cab. He threw himself at the boy and started viciously sucking on his neck. The cabbie tapped on the glass.

"Oi! There'll be none of that!" he shouted through the window. John pulled back and chuckled. Both boys started giggling.

"Going to have to be a bit more covert I'm afraid," the mystery boy whispered.

"Like how?"

The boy reached over and ran a hand up John's leg. John smiled and did the same to the other boy. The guy brushed his fingers across John's crotch.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," John moaned breathlessly as the boy started rubbing him through his jeans. The boy's trousers were quite a deal thinner so John was able to grab at and get a good feel of the boy's rapidly growing erection. They stroked each other through their clothing as their breathing grew heavy and ragged. They continued their heavy petting until the cab pulled up to a high rise building.

"We're here," the boy announced. He slid the fare to the cabbie and pulled John out of the cab by his forearm. Both boys stumbled out and made a fast pace for the front door.

They entered the grand building and John took his eyes off the boy for a moment to take in the lobby.

"Damn," he said. The lobby had white marble floors that were so spectacularly clean John could see his own reflection staring up at him. An immaculate diamond chandelier hung from the ceiling, which brought the focus of the room up to the ornate gold ceiling tiles. John's jaw dropped as he stared up at the sheer beauty of it.

"Come on," the boy said, smiling. He lead John by the hand to the front desk. The boy slid his hand into his pocket, pulled out a fifty pound note, and gave it to the concierge.

"He was never here." The boy said plainly.

"And what time did you make it home this evening?" the concierge asked.

"Just before nine."

"But of course," the man smiled and gave a small salute to John. The boy tugged on John's arm and led him to the lift. He pressed the button and the doors immediately slid open. Before John could ask what _that_ was all about, the boy pressed him against the wall. He pushed the highest number on the lift '20' and turned his full attention to pleasuring John.

They ravished each other with their mouths and resumed fondling one another's clothed erections. John was moaning uncontrollably and thrusting himself against the other boy's palm. Their kisses were desperate and were constantly broken by shuddering lips, gasps, and moans. The lift pinged.

"Finally," the boy growled as he pulled John out of the lift hurriedly. He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the front door. John looked around the private entryway in amazement. He'd never been in a place so nice. He had little time to admire the small room before he was being dragged through the threshold into the flat. He only caught small glimpses of the spectacular and ornate furnishings and decorations before they reached the bedroom.

The room looked like it belonged to a different flat. The walls were plain, there was a small desk in one corner with a chair, and in the middle of the room was a twin size mattress on a barred metal frame that looked like it came from a Romanian orphanage. Lastly, there was an old beat up cupboard against the wall that looked like it went through World War II.

John's attention was brought back to the boy who was breathing heavily and looking over him with an intense amount of lust in his eyes. He was quickly brought into another passionate embrace. John could feel the other boy's erection pressed against his and it was an entirely new sensation that he wasn't prepared for. He broke the kiss and winced from the shock of pleasure that coursed through him. He was walked backwards, unsteadily, to the bed.

He lay down on his back and the boy mounted him.

The boy straddled John's legs and was just barely able to keep himself on the tiny mattress. He began a bombardment of kisses on to John's neck, slowly moving down to his chest. He pulled at John's leather jacket and John sat up. He quickly tore his jacket off and threw it to the side. John pulled his shirt over his head and threw it off to the side as well. Then he helped the boy with unbuttoning his shirt and slid it off his shoulders. John ran a finger down the boy's chest, down his abdomen, and right down to his trouser's button.

The boy bit his bottom lip and rocked his hips impatiently. He undid the boy's zip and gently caressed his aching member through his briefs. The boy threw his head back and rolled his hips back and forth. John shut his eyes and felt the boy's arse brushing against his bulge. His erection was straining against his tight denim and metal zip. He winced.

"Fuck, I want you so bad," John moaned. The boy quickly dismounted, leaving John in a stupor. The boy slid down his own trousers and released his cock, which bobbed and smacked his lower abdomen. He gave it a light stroke and nodded for John to undo his jeans.

John looked down at his confounding jeans and fumbled with the zip and button. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom packet. He placed the packet between his lips as he slid down his jeans and underwear to reveal his pulsating member. He tore open the condom packet with his teeth and quickly slid the rubber on his cock.

The boy remounted John and leaned down to lock lips once more. He gently stroked John's shaft with one hand.

The boy stopped and looked into John's eyes, he scanned John's face. He smiled and John smiled back. Then he steadied John's cock and slowly lowered himself on to it.

"Oh fuck, that's unh so tight," John moaned. The pleasure was intense and near unbearable once the boy had fully lowered on to John's cock. They took a moment to catch their breath. Then the boy glided his hips forward. John's hands jutted out and grasped the boy's hips to guide him.

The boy immediately picked up the pace and made the headboard hit the wall with every rock forward. John closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip. He drew his knees up and held on tight to the boy's hips. Then he felt the boy begin to move vertically, up and down on his shaft. John started thrusting upward every time the boy came down.

John felt an orgasm rapidly approaching, he opened his eyes to view the boy with his head thrown back, moaning with intense pleasure, riding his cock. It was all too much and for the second time that evening, John came loud and hard.

His entire body shook from the intense release. The boy went still and started rapidly jerking himself off. He quickly came in thick ropes of hot white release on to John's bare chest. John threw his head back on to the pillow and searched for his breath. He panted heavily and could barely feel his legs as they dropped to the mattress. The boy dismounted, took off his purple shirt, and rubbed his come off John's chest. He threw the shirt into the corner before leaving the room. John gently shut his eyes, and waited for the boy to return. He drifted off into a heavy sleep.

It wasn't until early morning that John was suddenly awoken by a rustling sound. He felt his temples pounding from last night's activities. His pants were still around his knees and the come filled condom was still wrapped around his cock. He gently pulled it off in disgust. He looked up at the figure in the room that was getting dressed.

The boy was sliding on black trousers and had on a white button down. Around his neck was a black and red striped tie. He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a red blazer with black stripes. He shoved his arms into the sleeves and shrugged it over his shoulders. On his right breast was an insignia. A school crest.

John let the condom drop to the floor as he looked at the boy in shock.

_Oh my God, my first sexual experience with a guy and he's a little school boy._


	2. Chapter 2

John shut his eyes tight and groaned.

 

 

_This isn't happening. This is not happening._

"What year?" John asked, grimacing.

"Ten," the boy said plainly.

"Fuck," John whined. "Please tell me you were held back," John pleaded.

"No."

"Oh fuck... So that makes you... fifteen?"

"Fourteen."

John let out a loud groan.

"Oh fuck, I'm going to jail," John whimpered.

"Prison."

"What?" John looked questioningly at the boy.

"Those charged with statutory rape are imprisoned. A jail sentence is under one year."

"Fine! I'll be gang raped in prison then." John covered his face with his hands. "Inmates will be lining up round the block to have a go at a bloke who rapes little boys."

"You won't have to worry about being imprisoned, I'm not looking to turn you in," the boy said with a sigh. John let out a sigh of relief. "Given that you'll see me again."

"No! And what? Be a serial rapist?" John shot up and looked at the boy incredulously. "I... I'm in medical school! They'll throw my arse out on to the street!"

"It's simple enough, see me again, I won't tell a soul." The boy walked to his desk and slid open the drawer.

"A school boy... A bleeding teenager... I'm not even gay!" John shouted. The boy pulled out a plastic bag and walked over to the side of the bed. He bent over and placed the used condom in it and sealed the bag shut. "What's that then? Evidence?" John felt his head pounding.

"No. I'm going to dispose of it in the bins outside. You wouldn't want my brother finding out about us."

"Yeah... Your brother. Where's he at?"

"Paris, supposedly." The boy stood up. "I need to get going. Walk with me."

"Fuck... What? You want me to walk you to school?" he scoffed and let his mouth hang open. "You serious kid? You want me to hold your fucking hand and skip down the lane?"

"I merely wanted to discuss the terms of our relationship."

"Relationship!" John shouted. "What bleeding relationship? I fucking hooked up with you at a night club and now you want a relationship? For fuck's sake, you're delusional. You ever heard of a one night stand? Because, that's what this is." John pulled up his jeans indignantly. He slid off the bed and scooped up his t-shirt.

"No, this is black mail," the boy said shaking the bag. "I am a very convincing person when I want to be. I can cry on command and don't think for a second I wouldn't turn you in if you turned on me," he sneered.

"Fine! Turn me in. I'm not having this over my head."

"You will lose everything you have worked for."

"I don't care," John sighed. "I don't need this."

"Yes you do. Now walk with me. We can talk," the boy said gently.

John shook his head. He felt a lump in his throat and he tried hard not to let his eyes water. He took in a deep breath.

"I have to be in lecture soon."

"Barts isn't far from-"

"Wait... How'd you know I went to Barts?"

"Your phone's GPS search history. I assumed seeing as you're a medical student-"

"What were you doing searching through my phone?"

"I was leaving my number," the boy scowled.

"H-how? It's password protected!"

"Didn't take a criminal mastermind to figure you'd put your birthday as a password."

"Yes but-"

"Your ID."

"Now your going through my wallet?"

"Happy Birthday."

"Thanks!" John said sardonically. He pulled on his t-shirt and grabbed his coat. "And how exactly did you get past the pattern lock?"

"John, you really shouldn't use your phone with greasy fingers. And a 'Z' pattern," the boy scoffed. "A primary schooler could have guessed that one."

"Yeah, well you would know," John glared.

"I'm fast approaching my A-levels."

"Yeah, 'approaching'. I'm done with that shit. I'm at uni. But hey! Let's hold hands and prance to your school! Perhaps we'll make out right outside the gate in front of all your school mates!" John sighed. "Why can't you get with someone your age? What are you hanging around clubs for? Drinking? Smoking? At your age..." he trailed off.

"Sorry your first time to the clubs was such a let down."

"My... first time... how could you possibly know?"

"A first timer always misjudges the strength of a club's mixed drink, the awkward way you held yourself, the way the music caused you to wince in pain, the-"

"All right! All right! So I've never been to a club before. Sue me." John looked the boy over. "Let's get you to school then."

They quickly and quietly left the flat, rode the lift down, and ignored the glances in the lobby. The doorman pulled open the front door and gave the boy a nod.

"G'day sir," he said with a thick Australian accent. The boy led the way down the street and John struggled to keep up with his long lanky steps. He near had to run to keep up.

"Running late?" John asked.

"No."

"Then let up, I've got short legs."

"I've noticed," the boy said, lifting his eyebrow. He was a good two inches taller than John and looked like he had room to grow still. He was going to be gargantuan fully grown.

"Slow down," John said, catching up. The boy lessened his pace slightly. "Still haven't answered my question. What are you doing hanging around clubs?"

"At my age?" he sneered.

"At any age and don't give me your lip," John warned. The boy rolled his eyes. "You got a name?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

"Yes and you know mine. What's yours then?"

"Sherlock."

"Is that your real name?"

"Yes." He stopped in his tracks. "Why?" He furrowed his brow and looked into John's eyes.

"It's... different is all."

"Yes, we can't all have such a common name as 'John'," he sneered as he started walking once more.

"All right then... Sherlock. What were you doing at the club last night?"

"Same as you. Looking for a shag." He looked to John.

"I was not-"

"Not initially. The way you scanned the room-"

"Were you stalking me the entire time?" John looked at him and Sherlock looked away. "You were! Oh I should have known. You disappearing into crowds, looking away when I was looking, conveniently being outside the Gent's room. You knew I'd... How the hell did you know I'd throw myself at you?"

"Balance of probability. I gathered what I could about your character, your mannerisms, the way that girl made you shy away when she brushed her hand on your shoulder, and how she led you by the hand through the club. You have no interest in females, they make you uncomfortable, likely turn you away when you pursue them. You've likely always found men attractive yet repressed your feelings because they don't follow your strong Christian upbringing-"

"Strong Christian upbringing?",

"Well you are obviously not Jewish," Sherlock remarked. John looked at him confused. "Foreskin?"

"Yeah well... that doesn't-"

"Not unless you also carry your mum's cross necklace in your wallet."

"Could have been my gran's."

"It wasn't."

"Yeah," John shrugged. "Guess there were some strong Christian over-tones in my childhood. So what?"

"You never came to terms with your homosexuality and let your repressed feelings all out at once."

"I'm not gay."

"You had penetrative sex with a strange man you picked up at a club."

"Well I'm not _that_ gay. And you're just a kid. _Man,_ " John scoffed. "And I still fancy girls."

"You confuse nerves with hormones. Just because your heart rate quickens around a girl doesn't mean you want to have sex with her."

"I've been with girls before, just so you know," John said, annoyed with all these accusations. No matter how correct they were. This Sherlock fellow was starting to get on his nerves.

"Yes and from your lack of stamina and sustainability, I'd venture to say you haven't been with many."

"I-I was drunk! What do you expect?"

"All the more reason for you to last longer. It was obviously a highly pleasurable experience for you. For me as well. I'd like to see you again."

"Yeah well... That remains to be seen."

"This afternoon. Your place."

"I! But... yeah... well, what if I've got better things to do?"

"On a Thursday? With your booming social life, surely you could pencil me in. You likely only 'hang out' on Wednesday nights and remain cooped up in your flat the other six nights a week wishing you had some real friends."

"You say 'likely' when what you really mean is 'in all actuality'," John remarked. Sherlock chuckled and John held back a smile. "How'd you get so... observant?"

"I'm clever."

"You'd have to be. Black-mailing a learned scholar five years your senior."

"They let any self-righteous bastard into that program and you know it."

"Hey! I had to achieve quite the marks to get in. Plus, I'm guaranteed a spot post-graduate. And I've only done half the coursework," John said with pride.

"Bet your friends wish they were you."

"Yeah well Mike's a smart guy, much more clever than I am."

"He doesn't put in the work like you do."

"Well, the man acts like the world revolves around his prick. He'll be a great doctor."

"You'll be that much better. You may not believe it, but you are his superior, and you will make a top rate MD."

"Thanks? I think." John wasn't sure what Sherlock was getting at. "So... You looking at uni? You know... when you're all done."

"I've considered it."

"You have a focus?"

"Chemistry... perhaps..."

"Cool. I took a bit to get to where I'm at. Organic, inorganic, analytical, instrumental, did a bit of biochem as well. It was a good course," John shrugged and Sherlock nodded in agreement. "You taking any currently?"

"No." Sherlock clenched his teeth. "They stuck me in physics."

"Ah man, that's rough. I fucking hate physics. Mechanics and shit. Can't even drive a car let alone figure out torque and shit."

"It is an oversimplified useless subject. I rid my mind of the useless junk the moment I finish the examinations."

"Hey, at least you try! I barely passed mine." They walked by an iron barred fence and John reached out his hand, hitting the hollow bars as they walked, making them chime. "This your school?" John asked, pointing to the red brick building across the road. Sherlock nodded. "City of London School. Yep... Could have guessed it from the matching crest." John looked at Sherlock's red and black striped blazer. "You know that's a God awful colour."

"I'm highly aware."

"The black stripes really don't help matters do they?" John asked and Sherlock shook his head. "They come in solid colours?"

"Black, as a matter of fact. My brother thought I'd rather enjoy standing out like a sore thumb in a sea of black. He purchased it for me. When I'm a sixth former, I'm burning it."

John giggled.

"This one of those all boy schools?"

"Of course. My brother pays good money to keep me far away from the temptation of teenage pussy."

"Yeah, well, your brother is throwing that money straight into the toilet." John laughed. "You fancy anyone? You know, more your age? Here," John asked, motioning his head toward the building. Sherlock pulled out his packet of cigarettes and slid one out.

"I prefer older men," Sherlock shrugged as he lit his cigarette.

"You really shouldn't smoke."

"Thanks doc."

"How do you go about purchasing them if you're not old enough?"

"Brother."

"How come he's paying for your blazers, school, cigarettes, lodgings, and shit?"

"He's only handling my parents' finances. My mother has set up an allowance for schooling, housing, food-"

"Cigarettes?"

"Lay off, I'm in the process of quitting." Sherlock took in a long drag.

"How long have you been in that process?"

"A year and a half."

John snorted and Sherlock grinned.

"So I guess I'll let you go then."

"When are you done?"

"Round four... Wanna meet up five-ish?" John asked and Sherlock blushed. "Yeah, well might as well be civil. Have a cuppa with my black-mailer. Need my address?"

"221-B Baker Street?" Sherlock asked.

"Right."

"Don't need my GPS to get there." Sherlock grinned. "Five then, I'm holding you to it."

"Yes. I have to get going. Have an hour to figure out where the fuck I am," John said pulling out his mobile.

"Barts is a forty minute walk that way," Sherlock said pointing East.

"You said it was close!"

"By car."

"Well fuck!" John shouted. Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. He withdrew a fifty and handed it to John. "What's this for?"

"Cab fare."

"Yeah... Should be under twenty shouldn't it?" John asked.

"The rest is for last night."

"What am I? A prostitute?" John asked, aghast. Sherlock turned away. "I'll pay you back. Thanks," John said pocketing the note. "I'd best be hailing a cab then. You go on, don't want you getting in trouble for tardiness."

Sherlock stepped out and whistled for a cab; one pulled up immediately.

"I need to hone my cab hailing skills, they usually pass me by at least twenty times," John explained as Sherlock opened the door for him.

"Five, or I'm calling the police," Sherlock said, slamming the door roughly. John gritted his teeth. He gave the cabbie the directions, the cabbie's thick Indian accent required John to repeat himself at least five times.

"No, not the... yes the campus... no... the-" John stammered as he was interrupted every other word by the confused cabbie.

"Barts? Is Barts?"

"The London School of Medicine."

"Ah, is Barts?"

"Y-yes... Just... Whitechapel." They were already headed in the right direction and by the time John was done explaining where he needed to be, they were already there. "Thanks."

"Fifteen, on the nose," the cabbie said as he tapped the tip of his nose with a laugh.

"Yeah, bet that doesn't happen often." John passed him the fifty and waited for him to make a change. John gave the crazy cabbie a fiver for his trouble. The cabbie cackled and thanked him by bowing his head several times. John stepped out of the cab and started shaking his head. Since when did life become such an adventure? Just making it to class that day was a nightmare.

John looked at his mobile. He noticed eighteen missed calls and thirty texts. "Oh shit."

_I said I was just popping into the loo._

He thumbed through the texts. All from Mike.

_Shit, I'd better call._

John was about to press Mike's contact information when someone shouted his name.

"John!" Molly came running up to John, she was looking quite plain. She had on minimal make up and she was wearing some terrible puce coloured jumper with a long black skirt and what looked like clogs on her feet. John almost grimaced at her attire. It looked like she had dressed in the dark in her gran's closet. "We thought you'd died! You didn't come back from the loo. Mike went out looking for you. We even rounded the block seven times. You just vanished."

"Sorry... I went to-"

"My God, have you been home? You're wearing last night's clothes," she pointed out. "You look terrible."

"I'm all right."

"Your eyes are all blood shot, you look blown to hell."

"It's fine I'm-"

"Here, some Anadin, get you through the day you poor thing," Molly shoved the tablets in John's hand. "Scared us half to death, glad your ok. Next time, call," she said miming a phone with her thumb and little finger.

_Next time._

"I'd better get going. Lecture."

"Yeah, me too. You," she poked him in the chest. "Keep yourself safe."

"Will do." John smiled politely and went off in the opposite direction. He reached the lecture hall and saw Mike hanging around the corridor.

"John! The hell happened to ya mate? We were worried to death bout you."

"I ran into Molly, she told me."

"Told you we searched the whole damn city, high and low, not letting a stone unturned?"

"You circled the block a few times."

Mike let out a wheezy laugh as if it was the best joke he'd ever heard.

"Circled the block," he repeated. "Yeah well, we were concerned. Where'd you get off to then?"

"I..." John debated about how much he would tell his friend. It was all highly personal and quite illegal. He needed to speak with someone though. Anyone. He couldn't really talk to his family. His sister would fly off the handle and start giving him names of gay clubs and would want to double date or summat.

She had been fighting the losing battle with homosexuality for years now, it ate away at her and lead her to the bottle. She became a raging alcoholic once their parents passed away unexpectedly and only within a few years of each other. She could say what she would about how gay was who she was but the ghosts of her parents tore at her soul.

She had a strong amount of gay pride for other gays. She pressured John that he was secretly gay and tried hooking him up on several occasions. She had a nasty habit of assuming everyone was gay. John had become highly distant from his sister since he moved away. It'd been weeks since they had last spoke. Though a 'Hey, I'm gay!' text would make her lifetime.

John realized Mike had been staring intently at him with his arms crossed. He was demanding some kind of explanation.

"I erm... hooked up with someone... we went back to his-"

"His? You gay?"

"I meant-"

"Is k if you are I mean. You know, nothing wrong with gays," Mike said, unfolding his arms. "Just. Well, you think you know a guy."

_Known me all of one month._

"Yeah... Well I thought I knew myself too."

"So, was it your first time then? Hooking up with... a dude?" Mike raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, I was just so... drunk. He had the craziest eyes and I-"

"Don't go sharing the juicy details," Mike chuckled as he gave John a slap on the back. "Glad you found someone."

"Yeah but, I'm pretty sure I'm not gay," John said furrowing his eyebrows.

"Some times, you know, alcohol reveals your heart's truest desires," Mike shrugged. "Maybe you ought to talk to someone. Counsellor or summat. Someone with experience being... you know."

"Gay?"

"Or just dealing with those feelings. I'm not sayin it's a sin. Totally ok with that stuff. Just not my style is all."

"My sister's gay," John shrugged.

"There you go!"

"And a drunk."

"Even better! Probably knows all about gay drunken hook ups. Start with her. Even better that she's kin."

"Yeah but we've become fairly estranged now that I'm going to uni. She doesn't even answer my calls."

"Send her a text. What's the harm?" Mike looked into John's eyes. "It's a tough thing to deal with, not that I know. But you know?" Mike grinned.

"Yeah, I'll shoot her a text." John pulled out his mobile. "Thanks for searching for me last night."

"What are friends for?" Mike smiled.

John composed a short message to Harry and pressed send.

**Think I'm gay, give me a ring if you have the time.**

He showed it to Mike. Mike nodded.

"It's vague, good. She'll have to call you to elaborate."

"She'll have me marching in the fucking gay parade with a rainbow dildo up my arse riding a fucking unicorn."

"It's your culture mate," Mike chuckled. "Homophobic homosexuals are the most tortured people on this planet. There sure are a load of them too."

"I'm not homophobic, I'm just-"

"Gaycist." Mike finished.

"Gaycist?"

"All you know bout the gays is a whole big gay stereotype. Get yerself into the culture, might learn a thing or two."

"Should I buy a book?"

"Immerse yourself!"

"I'm not ready to dive in head first. Not even sure if I really am gay."

Mike shook his head. "Won't hurt to get to know some more people round London. Make friends."

"I have friends," John retorted.

"You have 'friend'. Me." Mike stated. John shook his head. Mike was right. John had no friends in London, he had Mike.

Back home in Aldershot it was pretty much the same story. His school-mates had all gone in different directions. John hadn't even started social networking online because he didn't care to keep in contact with any of his old buddies. His family was small and sparse; they also didn't communicate with one another. He only felt close to his old neighbours the Lestrades. They had one son, Gregory, not even close to John's age, eight years his senior. They had been neighbours for John's whole life. Greg had gone off to uni when John was ten.

Greg's parents were very proud of their son. He'd even dated the local beauty queen at one time. He was the talk of the town, people often had him mistaken for John's brother. They did hang out every waking moment of summers together. He would bring John along on camp-outs with his mates. John had his first beer with Greg when he was thirteen.

John was in a stalemate with Greg though. The past summer Greg had agreed to share the rent with him in London. He'd been pursuing a position at Scotland Yard and they spoke very animatedly about their future life in London together. John was looking forward to it and was excited to have someone familiar with him in the big city. Then Greg got with this bird after they moved in, got engaged to her, and she talked him out of London and onto the road with her.

John and him had been in the flat a whole of one week before he stiffed him and ran off with the bitch.

"You hardly know her!" John had protested.

"But she's my soul mate." Those words had hung heavily on John's heart for a long time. How could she be his soul mate if they had only just met? She loved how he showered her in gifts and praise. He kissed the ground she walked on. She was nothing but a gold digger and Gregory Lestrade took the bait, hook, line, and sinker.

Of course John didn't understand 'true love'. He was uncertain about his own sexuality after all. Mike looked at his wrist watch.

"Bout time to get our seats," he said. John nodded and they walked into the lecture hall together. They took their seats front row centre.

The lecture was probably fascinating but John's mind kept racing. He kept getting flash-backs from night prior. Those striking eyes, that smile. Then the cold kid he woke up to.

_Fourteen. By God. If I looked like that at fourteen... It's just far too young! His voice only just changed, he's still growing for Christ's sake. He doesn't have a speck of hair on his face not to mention his body. What I did was a sin, on so many levels. Mum and dad would be heart-broken to know their son would do such a thing, to such a young boy. He's just a boy._

John looked down at his notes. He had written one sentence, the lecture title. He was screwed if anything from today popped up later in exams.

_Gay's not a sin. My sister, she may be a drunkard, but she was most definitely born a lesbian. It's in her face. God... is it in my face as well? Did girls know this whole time? Do I... look gay?_

John's face turned white, he turned and looked at Mike. Mike furrowed his brow and mouthed _"You ok?"_

John nodded, though his mouth hung half open. He was in shock.

_Mike didn't know... then again he doesn't know his head from his arse half the time. By God, what if my parents knew? They died knowing Harry and I would never go on to reproduce. That our family name would end! Our blood line would run thin! I've disgraced my family name!_

"Oh God," John groaned and let his head fall and hit the desk. Mike patted his back. The lecturer stopped momentarily.

"He's all right," Mike said rubbing John's neck. "Rough night, been sick."

The lecturer nodded and gave John a look of pity. John got himself together and rubbed his face. He tried to return his attention to the presentation but he had never had his attention on it in the first place.

_Prions? The fuck are prions? Shit._

As soon as John started paying attention, there was a break. John groaned and Mike looked at him knowingly.

"Got your head in the clouds?"

"Fuck... Do I look gay? Like... did you know?"

"Like said, you surprised me. Ain't a feature on you that'd suggest either way. Run of the mill bloke. You know... you just default to straight," Mike shrugged.

"Yeah, my sister defaults to gay."

"Just world view mate. It's all it is. Hang out with gays all the time, the ol' gaydar is going to need some re-calibrating."

John chuckled. "Any other guy in the world would worry I'd be hitting on him."

"Yeah well, I'm not any other guy."

"You like Molly?"

"What gave you that impression?" Mike snorted.

"The way you eye-fuck her whenever you see her and grin like the Cheshire cat when she talks."

"Didn't know I was that obvious," Mike laughed. He wheezed a bit. "Asthma," he said as he grimaced. John nodded. "Don't help I had a few smokes last night." He cleared his throat. John thought to Sherlock smoking. The way his sensual, Cupid's bow lips wrapped around the fag. How his lips had wrapped around his...

John shuddered. He pushed away the thought and all but prayed the gay away. His heart rate had increased. He looked down, their ten minutes was near up.

"You taking good notes?" he asked Mike.

"Yeah, always." Mike showed him a picture of a Zeppelin on fire, some tits, and a topless young lady who strongly resembled Molly.

"You squander such a talent."

"I pass me exams."

"Your artwork, stupid." He pulled Mike's notebook out of his hands. "Look at this. It's brilliant. Your integrated organ systems notes," John said pointing to his illustrations. "Why can't you take notes like that all the time?" He had diagrammed and labelled anatomical structures in beautiful detail, had drawn textbook worthy pathways, and was able to easily copy figures from lecture slides into his notes.

"Can't draw pretty words," Mike laughed. "Plus the goof posts his slides online. Don't need to be paying attention, just be present for the head count."

"Attendance doesn't count."

"The hell it does. They treat you a whole lot different if you're skiving your lectures. Plus the professor from down-under, you get him for labs in molecular and cellular, you don't need to go pissing off ol' Crocodile Dundee, might cut you with one of them real knives."

"Fuck... labs," John sighed.

"Be blessed you have none today."

"You have any?"

"We're on the same schedule."

"Are we?" John asked incredulously.

"Yep. Wanna hang out after?"

"Nah, I have to head home."

"Got a hot date?" Mike said licking his lips. "Same bloke from last night?"

"Oh shut it you creeper. I have write-ups I haven't started." Which was a lie, John always finished his lab write-ups the day of lab so they were still fresh in his mind.

"Oh, shit you're right. I haven't even started on those either."

"Don't you have a triple lab day tomorrow?"

"Same as you? Yeah!"

"How haven't you even started?" John near shouted.

"Thought you said you hadn't either," Mike pointed out John's inconsistent story.

"Just saying it to get you off my back."

"Bout your date?"

"Piss off! I don't have a date. Just don't want to see your ugly mug 24/7. Bad enough we're apparently spending every waking moment at uni together."

"Too bad you don't live in the dorms, could have been roomies."

"Yeah well... Kind of stuck where I'm at for now." John rolled his eyes.

The rest of the lectures went by quick. John hardly had any time to scribble down notes. His hand ached but he was able to pay attention to at least some of the material presented, although he understood maybe a fourth of it. He still didn't figure out what prions were, they seemed important.

Four came all too soon and John was becoming nervous about his little visit. He wasn't even sure the flat had been picked up at all in the last week. He was nervously wringing his hands when Mike asked him if he needed a lift.

"It's way out there. Takes forty-five minutes by bus."

"It'll take half that if I give you a lift. It's fine, I'm headed that way anyway."

"No you're not."

"No I'm not," Mike chuckled. "You gonna take me up on my offer?"

_Would give me time to pick up the flat before he shows up._

"Sure."

Having a lift to Baker Street was twice as fast as waiting around for the damned bus. Loads more sanitary as well. Mike's clown car wasn't immaculate but it was pretty clean for a student's car. He dropped John off across the street and bid him fare-well. He had that smug grin on his face when he was leaving, like he knew John really did have a 'date'.

_It's not a date. It's a meeting with my blackmailer._


	3. Chapter 3

John opened the front door. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, left it open for him between four and six. She was thoughtful like that. He ran up the stairs to the first floor and pulled out his keys. He had a habit of twisting the door handle before putting his key in to make sure he had locked it prior to leaving. The door gave in.

_Shit, I forgot to lock it last night._

He near jumped out of his skin seeing the boy sitting in his arm chair with his legs crossed, admiring the view.

"You're early," John barely got out.

"So are you. Had a lift?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," John said hanging up his coat. He slid his shoes off. "Doesn't explain why you're here. I said five."

"I'm done at three," Sherlock shrugged. "Got bored."

"How did you get in, the door was locked?"

"Landlady let me in. Told her I was your cousin. Mother's side. Second marriage, a bit hush hush. She's quite nice. Even made me tea," Sherlock pointed to the cup on the side table.

"That's Mrs. Hudson for you," John sighed. "Give her a good bit of gossip and she'll forget she's not your housekeeper, start making you food, cleans the flat from time to time."

"I'd best keep my ears open then," Sherlock said opening the day's newspaper.

"Erm... You say that like you intend to move in."

"Of course," Sherlock said, still scanning the newsprint. John smiled and looked away.

"You cannot be serious."

"You need someone to share the rent. End of the month, do you believe you could honestly afford this place for much longer living off trust-fund money from a deceased bank manager and school-teacher?"

"I-"

"Don't worry I didn't gather that myself. Like you said, Mrs. Hudson has the gift of gab." Sherlock grinned and folded the newspaper perfectly and placed it back on the side table, he grabbed his cup and saucer and took a sip. "How about it?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows to convey sincerity.

"No. Not just no, fuck no. God, hell no." John started to panic. "You can come round here, say it's after school club, piss around with your video games or whatever the fuck teens do nowadays, but you're not being my flatmate." John thought of at least twenty million different reasons why it was a horrible idea, most of which being: he'd be thrown in prison for having fucked a minor. "What would your brother say?"

"Good riddance," Sherlock shrugged. "He thinks I'm an annoyance anyhow."

"What would you be telling people then?"

"Living with my cousin, John." Sherlock looked at John as if he was stupid.

"And to your brother? How would you explain you moving in with a university student? Hm? He'd know something was up."

"He honestly wouldn't give a flying fuck if I moved out, would prefer it even."

"Yeah, that's what your warped little teen mind thinks. He may not seem to care, but he does, trust me."

"Psh, you don't know my brother," Sherlock scoffed.

"Blood runs thick. He'd be the one to chop my dick off and flush it down the toilet if he found out what I did to you."

"Hm," Sherlock thought it over. "Perhaps."

"See, this is an absolutely terrible idea. So don't even give it a moment's thought."

"Could just say I'm moving in with my school-mate Raz who lives in the student housing. Keep some of my things there. You know," Sherlock shrugged. "It is pretty much fool proof."

"Yeah, except, I don't want you shacking up with me. There goes your little plan, right out the window," John whistled and mimed a piece of paper flying out the open window.

"You forget that I hold valuable information and surmountable evidence that you raped me," Sherlock shrugged once more. "So... there."

John knew when he was beat. Unfortunately he was at the mercy of a fourteen year old little rich boy.

"How are you paying your share?"

"Oh, my allowance is more than enough to cover any of my expenses. Plus Mycroft will no longer have to take up my living expenses so that money will be mine as well."

"How much are we talking?" John was interested.

"Enough."

"Well fuck! I obviously have no say, when are you moving in roomie?" John threw his arms into the air in defeat.

"Tomorrow, if that's fine with you."

"Never would be fine with me, but hey! Tomorrow works too."

"Good. I don't have much. I'll purchase what I need, perhaps help with the décor."

"What's wrong with the décor?"

"There isn't any." Sherlock was quite right. There was an arm chair, side table, and a telly.

"Could use another chair... Last flatmate took his shit with him when he ran off. Didn't come with much. Rooms are furnished though."

"I saw."

"Take it... you've been through my room," John sighed.

"Yep. Kind of a pigsty." Sherlock remarked. John frowned. "Oh no, I prefer it. Gives me more to look at."

"Wouldn't have gathered that from the state of your bedroom last night."

"Yes, well, the place of rest should be a simple place. The less stimulus, the better."

"All right Confucius Junior," John chuckled. "Lucky my ex-flatmate isn't here, he's a cop you know."

"Yeah, Mrs. Hudson seemed rather fond of George."

"Greg."

"Right. He's tall, dark, and handsome with a cleft chin and footballer's physique," Sherlock huffed. "I know the type."

"Greg's a good guy. He just... doesn't always make the best choices. Not with women anyway," John sighed.

"So he broke your heart then?"

"He didn't break my heart." John looked at Sherlock with disbelief. "You don't know the first thing about our friendship."

"Sure I do. You grew up with him, spent endless summers together, went on camp-outs. People thought you two were brothers. You weren't quick to correct them. You fancy him. He's gone. No threat to me."

"A threat to you? Fuck, Sherlock. I'm not going to be your boyfriend."

"Companion, partner, lover, call it whatever. Don't even have to use names." Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. "Call us flatmates even, if it helps you sleep better at night."

"Bet you know about my night terrors as well."

"Your what?" Sherlock looked over at him.

"Oh well... Thought Mrs. Hudson would've... yeah you being my fictional cousin you would have known." He looked at Sherlock who looked confused. "I wake up in the middle of the night screaming, hope it doesn't bother you."

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for hours on end. Would that bother you?"

"Wouldn't mind if you started that now... the not talking bit."

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"Potential?" John asked confused.

"While you're entirely on board with the idea, I still must mull it over. If I'm certain, I'll move in tomorrow. If not, perhaps you'll never see me again." Sherlock grinned and stood up. "Well I'd better get going, pleasure seeing you again, John." He shook John's hand and made his way for the front door. "By the way, I'm clean you know. Didn't have to have that condom," Sherlock said turning around.

"How do you know I'm not?"

"Just do. Next time _Bare_ ," Sherlock growled.

"Nex-next time. You said perhaps I'd never see you again. I'd rather like that."

"No you wouldn't," Sherlock winked and left the flat in a quick sweep.

"The little fuck," John huffed.

"Heard that!" Sherlock responded in a high pitched voice from down the stairs.

"GOOD YOU LITTLE FUCK!" John shouted.

"John!"

"Oh! I am so sorry Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson opened the door and looked at John with disgust.

"The language from your mouth, young man," She shook her head. "You best be nice to your cousin." She had brought some biscuits up and set the plate on the kitchen counter top. "Be nice having the young man round here, seemed real sweet."

"Yeah well, you don't know the first thing about him... Wait. How'd you know he was moving in?"

"He told me! We had ourselves a nice chat. Told me bout your Aunt, shame her marriage didn't work out. Poor thing's practically an orphan. You know... without the whole dead parents bit. Oh... dear I'm sorry John I didn't mean..." Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her mouth.

"It's fine Mrs. Hudson." John looked down.

"I really need to watch what I'm sayin. Starting to slip, old age and all."

"Mrs. Hudson, you are far from _old."_

"Oh don't go trying to kiss up to me. I'm an old hag and you know it."

"You are a vibrant star that burns brighter with age."

"Right before I burn out, thank you, John," she chortled and gave John a pat on the shoulder. "Having two young men above my head, it's going to do a number on my wrinkles."

"I'll try my best to keep him under control." John was concerned at the thought. "We'll hardly even be here during the day." He thought that sounded much better.

"Well I'd better be getting back to my shows. Came up during the advertisements."

"Back on the soaps again?"

"I know... my one weakness," she admitted. Mrs. Hudson had a nasty habit of becoming highly addicted to several soaps at once. Then she'd lose track, stop watching them all together, and then kick herself later for not watching them when she picked them up again. It was a vicious cycle but not one she was apt to quit.

John's mobile vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out.

**Decided I'd move in after all -SH**

John gritted his teeth.

**You decided that the moment the landlady said there was a room available.**

**True. Well I have a long list of preparations, so I will see you tomorrow. -SH**

_Yeah, anal preparations. The rat bastard._

**BTW, I didn't mean anal preparations. -SH**

"Course you didn't," John said to his phone. He threw it on to his chair and went to his bedroom behind the kitchen. He fell on to his bed and sighed. "I'm being held hostage by a boy-slut."

_A genius boy-slut._


	4. Chapter 4

John came back after his triple lab day, sore from head to toe. His feet were swollen from his cheap trainers and his clothes reeked of acetone and latex. His eyes were burning and there was a red line in the middle of his forehead from the goggles that had been digging into him for eight hours.

He was somewhat relieved to be back at the flat but at the same time distraught because he knew what or rather whom awaited him. He climbed the stairs slowly and found the front door was wide open. He looked into the flat and his jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

"Fuck! Sherlock... I thought you said you didn't have much!" The flat was suddenly highly decorated with five times as much furniture and endless amounts of books and odd decorations. It went from clean to a cluster fuck in only a few hours. "Did you go to school today?"

"Of course not, I had more important things to do," Sherlock said placing a skull on the mantle.

John looked around. Now they had a full length sofa, another arm chair, a desk, a coffee table, and another side table. There were so many books on the built in shelves that they had to be stacked horizontally on top; he'd even added bookshelf in the corner that was also filled with books. John glanced over the titles, the subjects varied from botany to turn of the century medicinal chemistry. 

John noticed a glass display case filled with well preserved exotic beetles and a misplaced fruit bat.

_Why would he put a bat in with a bunch of beetles?_

"Sherlock! There's shit everywhere! You had a desk and a cupboard!"

"They're with Raz," Sherlock explained, adjusting the mirror above the mantel.

"Where did all this come from?"

"Shops," Sherlock said, thumbing through an old book.

"Shops... What... Did you buy out an antique store?"

"Actually... as a matter of fact, I bought out two," Sherlock said, slamming the book shut.

"Fuck... This is a lot. How'd you get it all in here?"

"Had help. Shop keepers had nothing better to do, Raz needed an excuse to ditch."

"Shit," was all John could say. He looked around some more, trying to take it all in. "Looks pretty nice actually," he said rubbing his chin. 

"Glad you like it. It was such a bore directing traffic."

"Didn't lift a finger did you?" John scoffed. Sherlock lifted up his middle finger. "Har har," John said throwing the union jack cushion at him. "What's my dresser doing out here?"

"Oh shit, they were supposed to move that upstairs! I'll have to leave a bad review on their site now," Sherlock tutted.

"Upstairs?"

"Yes, I moved you upstairs."

"What?" John rushed to his room and opened the door. It had completely different furniture. There was even a framed periodic table of elements on the wall where his signed Van Halen poster used to be. "My room!"

"No, my room." Sherlock corrected.

"No MY room. I like this room."

"I do too. The one upstairs is so inconvenient. This one is right off the kitchen, loo's right there, don't have to go down a flight of stairs in the middle of the night to use the facilities."

"That's why _I_ like this room. Fuck I'll break my neck on those stairs."

"Could sleep with me, bed's plenty big."

"Fuck you, I'm not sharing," John hissed.

"Then I'm afraid you're upstairs. When you change your mind-" Sherlock patted the bed.

"Fucking teens, selfish little pricks."

"You're still a teen."

"I'm _nineteen_ I'm an adult."

"Nine-TEEN," Sherlock emphasized. "In a year's time you can go on about how rotten us teenagers are, until then, you are one of us," Sherlock said in a 'so there' manner. "Wanna try out the bed? The mattress is brand new," Sherlock said biting his lower lip and raising his eyebrows suggestively.

John just let out a sound of disgust and turned and left his former room. He walked straight through the kitchen, out the door, and upstairs. He opened the door to Greg's old room. Only now it resembled the room he had had downstairs. Sherlock had done a hell of a job keeping everything the same. He had everything down to the angle and placement of John's textbooks on his desk.

It felt very much the same yet it sucked that he was now upstairs instead of right next to the loo. He was certain he'd have a night terror the first night, go running out of the room, and kill himself on the stairs. He locked the door behind himself, a feature the other bedroom lacked.

_Kid probably knows how to pick locks. Oh well, this gives me time to react if I hear him._

John threw himself down on the bed.

_Saturday. Whole day off. Need to make plans away from this hell hole._

John pulled out his mobile and searched his contacts.

_Choices, choices, Mike or Mike._

He chose neither. He stared at Greg's contact information for the longest time before he let out a heavy sigh. 

_Might as well break the ice, could talk to him bout my 'cousin' moving in. Leave out the statutory rape._

**Hey, just got myself a new flatmate.**

John put the phone down and lay his head on the bed. The phone immediately pinged with a message alert.

"That was fast," he remarked.

**That's great! Do I know him? Her? -GL**

John looked at the text for a moment.

_Should I take some time to answer? Don't want to sound too eager._

**Cousin, actually.**

**Cousin? -GL**

**Aunt, mother's side.**

**Mongoose? -GL**

**That's the one.**

John did have a questionable aunt on his mother's side that he was rather estranged from. He was unsure if she was even alive. She was pretty ancient. She had a taxidermy mongoose that was in a fighting stance with a taxidermy cobra half in it's mouth. Her house frightened John as a small child.

**Wasn't aware she was able to procreate. -GL**

**Neither was I til this kid from her second marriage came to my door needing housing. Goes to some prep school in central London.**

John couldn't remember the school's name, hoping the details didn't matter.

**Is he a nutter like his mum? -GL**

**Appears so.**

**Must run in the family. Whole Watson family is chock full of em. -GL**

John laughed, out loud.

**Lol**

**Hey, I'm going to be in London next weekend. You want to go see a film or something? -GL**

**Your fiancée as well?**

John waited. He looked to see if the text had sent properly. He shrugged his shoulders and placed the phone on his night table. He grabbed his physiology text from the night table and flicked on his lamp. He started to read the incredibly long and boring chapter on the renal system and blood pressure control with diuretics. He must have dozed off because when he jerked awake he had travelled forward in time three hours.

"Fuck," he mumbled, rubbing his forehead. His textbook was still on his lap. He slammed it shut and then cursed himself for not putting in a book mark. Not that he pulled a lot of information from the chapter anyhow.

There was a knock at the door. John rolled out of bed with a grumble and walked over to unlock his door. He opened it to find, surprise, Sherlock.

Sherlock held out a plastic carrier bag.

"What's this?" John asked as he scratched the back of his head, trying to smooth out his bed-head.

"Food. You know, that thing you eat. Took the liberty of getting some Chinese, seeing as you were napping and wouldn't likely get around to making anything."

"Can't cook?" John asked, looking him over. Sherlock looked at the floor in mock shame and John laughed. "You fucking over-privileged cunt. Bet you can't even tie your own laces," John jeered. Sherlock gave him a look of confusion. "What?"

"I... have... trouble tying my shoes."

"Really?"

"Never learned to tie them properly, I taught myself," Sherlock admitted. John snorted a laugh and Sherlock glared at him.

"What? It's funny. Got all those brains in your head and you can't even tie your own laces."

"I can tie them, I just don't know how to tie them properly," he emphasized.

"Can't cook neither."

"I could," Sherlock shrugged.

"Fine, I'll show you how to work the range in the morning. Don't go catching the kitchen on fire trying it yourself, it's a gas stove."

"Unh," Sherlock groaned.

"What?"

"I have to light it?" he asked with another disdainful groan.

"You press a button, it auto-ignites."

"It doesn't cook _for_ me."

"Unless you wanna boil water by stirring it with a spoon real quick, then the stove does its job quite nicely." John reached out and took the food. "Ta, I dozed off reading."

Sherlock entered the room fully and looked it over.

"Ah, knew you would be needing that one. It was on the floor next to your bed when it was downstairs, I thought the night stand was a better place. Moved your dirty laundry into the hamper as well. Oh, and I wasn't about to recreate your shredded paper, loose change, and crisp wrapper mosaic on your bedroom floor. Threw all but the change away. Hope you weren't holding on to the rubbish," Sherlock said with a wry grin.

John frowned at him as he opened the bag. He pulled out rice and chicken and broccoli.

"You eating?" John asked.

"Not hungry."

"More for me," John shrugged. "What did you do for lunch?" John grabbed the chopsticks and snapped them apart.

"Lunch?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah... after breakfast, before dinner."

"I know what lunch is," Sherlock sneered. "I'm trying to remember if I had any," he said, looking thoughtfully towards the ceiling.

"If you have to think about it, you didn't. Have some rice at least," John offered the box. Sherlock took a few grains between his fingers and dropped them into his mouth.

"There," Sherlock said as he chewed the grains of rice thoroughly.

"You do this often?"

"What?"

"Not eating." John looked over Sherlock's thin frame. "You're a growing boy, you need to eat."

"I don't want to grow any more. I'm already a head taller than everyone in my class." Sherlock threw himself on to John's bed. He lay back and laced his finger behind his head. "Besides, hunger helps me concentrate, keeps me focused. Metabolism takes all of the good blood from my head and wastes it on digestion. People who eat constantly never know the thrill of an empty stomach, the adrenaline bursts that keep you on a endless hunt. I however redirect my hunt for food into a hunt for knowledge... why are you looking at me like that?"

"Fuck kid, eat a God damn sandwich," John shook his head. "That blood in your head is carrying heme bound to crazies instead of oxygen and all the crazies are releasing into your food deprived brain."

"Very poetic John. Good use of metaphors," Sherlock said sardonically.

"Seriously eat something," John offered up the chicken and broccoli once more.

"No no. It lacks the essential fatty acids I crave."

"Well... what do you _crave_?"

"High lipid content, rich in omega-3's, high amounts of sodium and protein, copious amounts of starch, coated in grease, and lathered in fermented acetic acid."

"Omega 3's... fish? Starch, chips, coated in malt vinegar? You want to go to a chip shop?"

"Very good John. But no, I don't fancy going out again. Involves... effort, on my part."

"I could pick some up."

"They'd get all soggy. Nope, must be fresh."

"I don't know how to make em."

"Didn't believe you would with your severely limited stock of noodles and microwave dinners."

"I can cook," John huffed.

"Pressing a button a microwave is no more cooking than you are a straight man."

"I am entirely straight. I love girls. I just got a bit drunk Wednesday night and wasn't thinking straight-"

"I'll say," Sherlock snorted.

"One time."

"Come on, it was good for you too. I know it was."

"Yeah... _was_. Until I found out you're a fucking kid," John said flinging a piece of broccoli at Sherlock.

"I'm not a kid!" Sherlock said with a slide-whistle inflection.

"See! You're still going through puberty."

"So are you."

"The doctor said I'm done growing."

"You'll be short forever?"

"Oi, I'm of average height," John said standing tall, puffing out his chest.

"Three inches shy, I'm afraid." Sherlock made a pouty face. "I'm fast approaching the national average and probably still have another three inches on top of that. With my genetics, I'll likely break six foot."

"I noticed you still haven't grown into your paws. In a weeks time your head will be scraping the ceiling," John teased and Sherlock chuckled a low throaty laugh. His voice did seem to have quite a range, from a low baritone to a shrill girl's voice when he wasn't actively controlling it.

"Oh and don't worry about rent come October."

"Why?" John asked, digging into his meal.

"We're good til May. Paid the landlady today."

John's jaw dropped and a piece of chicken fell out of his mouth.

"You what?"

"Mrs. Hudson was just as surprised. I even included a little extra, told her to buy herself something nice," Sherlock grinned.

"I thought we were _sharing_ the rent."

"You can pay me back."

"Shit, like you said, I'm living off a small trust-fund my parents set aside for Harry and I."

"I thought you had a sister," Sherlock hummed.

"Harriet."

"Ah," Sherlock said.

"I'll have to pay you back in small payments."

"That's all right, there's other ways you can pay me back. Exchange of favours if you will."

"Piss off kid, I'll have it to you in cash. Just give me some time."

"Take all the time you'd like. I'm not charging interest," Sherlock said with a grin.

John's phone pinged with a message alert. He put down his food just as Sherlock reached over for his phone and quickly unlocked it.

"GL, Geoffrey Lestrade?"

"Greg," John sneered and snatched the phone out of Sherlock's hands. "How'd you guess the new password?"

"Pin number, last four of social, please," Sherlock said with a scoff. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt though, the pattern was clever, a square, woo."

"Next one will have twenty characters alternating capitals and a shit ton of asterixes-"

"AsterixIS" Sherlock corrected.

"Asterixesssssss," John hissed. "Then once you guess the password the damn phone explodes."

"Not very pragmatic now is it?" Sherlock laughed. John stuck his tongue out and looked down at his phone.

"Oh yes!" he smiled. "Fuck yes!" John exclaimed as he started to do a celebratory dance.

"Him breaking it off with his fiancée is exciting news for you?"

"She was the fucking bitch who screwed me out of a flatmate," John stopped. "Well not that it matters now," he sighed, referring to his sudden loss of an available room. "Still, she was a bitch, he deserves better."

"What, like you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, you want him for yourself." Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"He's my fucking neighbour, I've known him my entire life."

"Been fantasizing about him a long time then?"

"He's eight years my senior you prick. There's no way-"

"No way he'd fall for a guy like you?" Sherlock asked, giving John a head to toe look.

"He's not gay!"

"Neither are you apparently. You can have not-gay sex together!" Sherlock shouted.

"You are so daft. I thought you weren't threatened by him."

"That was before he came crawling back. You going out to the cinema with him next weekend?"

"Of course."

"Can I come?"

"No!"

"See! You plan on putting the moves on this guy, try and get him when he's most vulnerable."

"Not everyone is gay! God, you're just like my sister."

"A belligerent drunk?"

"How-"

"Your laptop was a 'present' from her. It's scuffed to hell and has a crack on it from when it was dropped and then promptly stepped on. The keyboard has been replaced. The top of the LCD screen is broken from being slammed shut too hard on several occasions. She abused her laptop like she abuses her liver."

"Doesn't mean anything."

"Separate no, together yes. The parts often don't equal the whole. The whole picture is your sister is a drunkard and hit her keyboard with big ol' ape fists trying to type 'I love you's' to her ex-girlfriend, begging for her forgiveness. Likely treated her like she did her computer when she was drunk. Beat it mercilessly."

"Get out. Get out of my room," John clenched his teeth tight and pointed to the door.

"George is a piece of shit, I know his type, he will only break your heart." Sherlock crossed his arms and remained put.

"I'll break your jaw if you don't fucking leave, NOW." John's voice went terrifyingly low. He was even surprised at how low it rumbled in his chest. Sherlock finally took a hint and rolled off the bed and left the room without a word. John slammed the door behind him and locked it.

John took in deep breaths and gritted his teeth.

_How dare he talk about Harry that way. He doesn't even know her. He may be spot on about her personality but he doesn't have to be a major prick._

John looked at his mobile and thought up a response to Greg's text.

**That sucks mate. Want to talk about it?**

John thought it was the safest thing to say.

**Nah. What's done is done. I'm really sorry for skipping out on the rent like that. It was a shit move. I'm old enough to know better. Though I'm glad you have your cousin for company. -GL**

**Sherlock is shit company.**

John debated putting 'I'd rather have you'. He thought that'd sound like a come on. Not that Greg knew John's sexuality dilemma. He wasn't about to discuss it with him.

**What'd he do? -GL**

**Nothing... not yet. Still he's a creepy perv that makes all these crazy accusations, almost all of them spot on. He can tell you things about yourself you don't even know. I don't know, he's just off.**

**With a mum like Auntie Mongoose, what do you expect? -GL**

John laughed and held the phone for a moment. What did he expect? He hardly knew the kid.

**Next weekend? Film?**

**Friday. Indie film festival. You'll love it. -GL**

"Indie films?" John's upper lip twitched and he furrowed his brow.

**When did you become a hipster?**

**Psycho-bitch had good taste in the arts. I'll have to introduce you to hyper realism. The shit is amazing. -GL**

**Whatever you say.**

John looked at the phone weird. He had never known Greg to be into any of the fine arts. He had listened to shitty pop music and old hair bands growing up. He played football, drank beer, ran around chasing girls. He was not some hipster. Nevertheless, John was excited to see his old friend, no matter his changing taste in films.

John closed his eyes and tried to remember the old Greg. Their summers together. Such comforting memories of camp-outs at the lake, fire-side chats, getting to hang out with twenty-year olds and stay up late listening to their stories about sex. Greg didn't try shelter him from their stories. His mum would have had a fit if she had known John had amounted all of his knowledge about sex from a bunch of promiscuous twenty-somethings. They had a shag wagon, which was more for smoking dope than anything else.

The only reason John didn't experiment with drugs was because Greg was so adamant about staying clean. He wouldn't even let anyone smoke around him in fear it would get in his hair and would cause him to fail a drug test years down the road. John would never do anything his brother from another mother wouldn't do.

He liked Fosters; therefore, John did as well. Listened to Van Halen, so did John. He wore a white t-shirt and denim jeans everyday, so did John. The whole summer they were twins and Greg never minded having a look-alike tag-along like John. He always told John he was glad he came on the camp-outs.

One summer John needed his tonsils out and had to miss a trip. Greg drove all the way to the lake only to turn back a few hours later. He said it was because they were all getting high. John felt he came back for him. Greg sat around John's house eating orange sherbet and read the latest Harry Potter out loud the whole weekend.

John missed his friend dearly. Their last summer was broken up with summer jobs, a family vacation, and his mum's funeral. He hadn't nearly enough time to hang out with Greg. When they did hang out he was usually with some girlfriend that he'd set on his lap at restaurants. John would get all quiet and uncomfortable in the girl's presence and would try to just listen to Greg's awesome stories of the amazing life he was leading as a beat cop.

Greg's ultimate dream was to be a detective inspector at Scotland Yard. He'd settle for beat cop for now though. He wore the uniform well, he was stocky and very fit. He was tall too, near six foot. He had always towered over John.

John started to drift off into a deep sleep. As expected, he woke up in a terror shortly after falling asleep. He had made it to his door and had thrown it wide open. He stood in the doorway gathering his thoughts. He looked at the unfamiliar surroundings.

_Go back to bed. There's nothing there._

John swallowed and felt hoarse. He had been screaming. He grimaced, not sure what he had been shouting. It is possible he was just screaming. He tried to remember if he saw something that triggered it. Sometimes objects in his room looked all distorted in his unconscious state, he could sometimes remember hallucinating, though he hated to think he was some schizophrenic, hearing voices and seeing things that didn't exist.

He had once been set off by his alarm clock's green LED light before. Now it had a piece of masking tape covering the glowing green light. In his delirium it had became some sort of green cloud that threatened to kill him. It had even whispered in his ear once and caused John to jolt awake and dart through the flat, out the front door, and down the stairs full speed. He almost got to Baker Street before Mrs. Hudson caught him and sent him back to bed.

She had a way of calming John down that didn't make much sense to him. She would simply tell John, "Go back to bed." and John would often comply, turn about, and return to his bed. A few times he had to sit on the bottom step and rock back and forth, shaking, for a while before heading back upstairs. He listened to his landlady though. There were a few times she told him he had ran down stairs and he couldn't even remember having a night terror that night.

This scared him the most, not remembering. The stairs scared Mrs. Hudson, of course. The loud thundering sound of John thudding down the stairs at midnight gave her a fright every time. In the short time he had lived on Baker Street he'd near scared Mrs. Hudson to death a dozen times. He was surprisingly agile for an unconscious person. He hadn't once fallen down the stairs but it was only a matter of time before that changed.

His night terrors had become a nightly occurrence, the sleep running was a little bit more sporadic. It was almost certain he'd wake up screaming though. Sometimes he shouted things, other times he just screamed bloody murder. It made his throat ache constantly.

The only night he had slept without a night terror was the night he went clubbing and met Sherlock. He had had a dreamless sleep that left him more well rested than he had been in a while. That could make alcohol worthwhile for John, if he didn't have any more nightmares or nightly episodes.

John stood on the landing and held his head in his hands. He coughed and his throat burned. He ran his hand through his hair and took a deep breath.

_Crying won't bring them back._


	5. Chapter 5

"By God Sherlock! You've made a meth lab of my kitchen!"

John looked over the kitchen table that was cluttered with glassware, clamps and stands, ethanol lamps, and some odd square device John had never seen before.

"John, surely you know what this is a set up for," Sherlock said as he adjusted the square and looked at the drips coming off the end of the condenser with excitement.

"It's... a distillation set up," John said, looking it over.

"A _fractional_ distillation set up," Sherlock said pointing to the convoluted fractioning column on top of the round bottom flask.

"Ok... I get that but what in blazes is that?" John said pointing to the square.

"It's a modified water pump, they use them in aquariums. Our sink isn't equipped for hooking up rubber tubing. Don't worry I'll get a faucet adapter in a week's time, they're on back order. Might replace the whole sink. Maybe hook up a natural gas line, it won't be too difficult seeing as we have a gas range. I'm certain-"

"What's this for? I know it's not for school."

"This," Sherlock said, passing John a notebook with a bunch of scribbles and what looked like a reaction mechanism. He studied it carefully. Sherlock tapped his finger on a circled end product on the bottom of the page. "I want that one, but there's four other side products. My teacher said there was no catalyst that would bring this reaction to completion with only one stereo-isomer; so I'm making that catalyst."

"If... the reaction is supposed to go to completion with only one product, how come your distilling it?"

"Good question John! I said I'm _making_ the catalyst. Apparently the reaction itself creates seven side products, the one I am interested in also has an S configuration. I'm able to extract the R and S stereo-isomers, without much difficulty. From the distillate I'll run another, less crude, distillation to extract only the R. Their boiling points are within only a degree of one another. Shocking I know!" Sherlock said looking over John's face, John's mouth was agape. "Usually I have a higher buffer zone."

"No, what's shocking is you're running an elaborate science experiment in my bloody kitchen _and_ you have no safety gear on. Where are your goggles? Have you looked over the MSDS for any of these chemicals? There's no fume hood in here! What about inhalation?"

"I turned the fan on," Sherlock said sheepishly. John went to the front room and opened the windows. He continued to nag Sherlock from a distance.

"These chemicals could be carcinogenic and you aren't wearing any gloves. There are ethanol lamps ablaze everywhere and your sleeves aren't rolled up. You probably don't even know where the fire extinguisher is!"

At this point, Sherlock had completely tuned John out and was continuing with his experiment. He looked with anticipation at the bottom of the round bottomed flask.

"I'm debating cutting it short, I don't want any residue sneaking in. I'm going to have to crash it out of solution. Do we have a mel-temp apparatus?"

"Oh yeah sure, I keep it in my bedroom, right next to my Bengal tiger with the gold collar round it's neck and the stacks of twenties and fifties I sleep on every night."

"I don't need a digital one, the manual would be fine." Sherlock looked at John. "So I take that as a no for the mel-temp?"

"Of course not! What nutter keeps that shit around his place? Go to a chem lab!"

"They're not open to students for leisure." Sherlock started pulling out the ethanol lamps and snuffed them with their caps. He pulled the round-bottomed flask out from under the condenser and started swirling it. He held it to the light and looked at the bottom. He grinned and put on a rubber stopper and placed it in the cabinet with the tea-cups.

Sherlock turned and disappeared into his room. John stood in shock for a moment, looking over the apparatus that Sherlock had rigged up.

_I've taken years of chemistry and I couldn't follow half of what he was saying. I get the concept but his reaction mechanisms are like nothing I've ever seen before. How did he even come up with a catalyst? That's something Nobel Prize worthy. He's five years my junior and at least five times smarter than I am._

"Sherlock! Get back out here and clean up!"

_I don't even know where to store all of this. He has completely taken over the flat in a week's time._

It was finally Friday once more, school was out for the day, and John was seriously debating calling a babysitter for Sherlock so he could go to the film festival with Greg later.

_Mrs Hudson! She has nothing better to do. She can even cook him dinner._

John thought to the fiasco he had with teaching Sherlock to cook simple scrambled eggs. The boy just wasn't willing to learn. He had no patience for it and was constantly saying how bored he was watching them cook. Yet he could watch distillate drip from a condenser for hours on end. The boy wasn't right in the head.

Sherlock was the only person in the world who could have burnt and undercooked his eggs at the same time. They had gone through a half a dozen eggs before John gave up and made them breakfast.

John was certain Sherlock had been skiving like none other that week. Sherlock would purchase boxes and boxes of stuff off the Internet and someone had to be there to sign for the packages. John kept coming home to more and more crap and the flat was becoming overwhelming. John was always picking up after the boy and cleaning up his messes. Sherlock was incapable of putting dishes in the sink. His clothing seemed to explode off his body after class and there was always a trail leading to his bedroom.

Not to mention his artwork on the wall. A giant yellow smiley face that he had been throwing kitchen knives at, embedding them in the wall. John couldn't have possibly covered it up, so when Mrs Hudson came in that day to help with the cleaning she scolded John severely and said it was coming out of their rent.

Sherlock had been in a constant state of boredom although he fluttered around the flat like a hummingbird, always in motion. He needed to have his mind occupied at all times. "My mind rebels stagnation!" he had told John. "Give me problems, give me work!"

"Could work part-time at Tesco," John offered.

"I'd rather be in a firey car crash and be a rendered a crippled vegetable the rest of my life than work at that God forsaken hell hole."

"I worked there once as a kid. Over the summer. Saved up a bit. I was a bag boy."

"You've been replaced by a chip and PIN."

"God I hate those machines. Constantly mocking me."

They had both laughed. John was surprised Sherlock even knew what a chip and PIN was, he never wanted to go do the shopping. John was finding himself at Tesco all too often replacing the milk that mysteriously vanished. Before he could get away with a pint of milk, now he needed two to four litres at a time.

There was never any food in the fridge. What John bought, they would eat that day. He was slowly learning what Sherlock would eat. He'd buy a pound of bacon and it would be gone by the end of the day. Sherlock said that hunger fuelled his mind. John was convinced bacon fuelled his soul.

Sherlock never ate in front of John either. It was a bit odd. There were dishes everywhere and evidence that Sherlock knew how to use the microwave. The rotating plate was coated in bacon grease. John wasn't sure why Sherlock had to go and hide to eat, like someone would take his food away if they saw him enjoying it.

_Oh well, just another quirk on the endless list of quirks._

John left the glassware alone in favour of finding out Mrs Hudson's plans for the evening and if they would please please please involve watching Sherlock so he wouldn't burn the place down to the ground. He found Mrs Hudson at the bottom of the stairs, dressed to go out.

"Mrs Hudson! Where are you off to?" John asked, running down the stairs to catch up with her.

"Dinner date, with the girls."

"Oh but..." John caught himself before he started pouting. "Sherlock's going to be all alone tonight, I was hoping you could, you know, pop in on him every once in a while."

"Oh, so I'm his nanny now?" Mrs Hudson chuckled.

"Come on, I haven't seen my best mate in forever. I don't want Sherlock tagging along but I don't want to leave him here alone, unsupervised."

"Ok love, I'll pop in every so often tonight to make sure he's behaving himself."

"Mrs Hudson, you're too good for me," he exclaimed as he gave her a peck on the cheek.

"Don't you be forgetting it either," she said, poking him in the chest as she chuckled to herself. John couldn't help but jump into the air.

"Yes!" He shouted. He ran up the stairs and turned sharply to run up to his room. He was near out of breath when he leaped on to his bed and grabbed his mobile. He smiled as he looked over the text once more.

**Seven, I'll come round and pick you up. -GL**

John hadn't been this excited in quite some time. It was only five and his stomach was fluttering, he couldn't hold back his smile, he was getting a bit jittery and felt nervous all over.

He went to his dresser and started searching for an outfit. Sherlock was no help getting the massive dresser up the stairs after he had commandeered John's bedroom. It had to stay in the living area half a week until Mike had helped John drag it up to his new room. John pulled open the second drawer and looked over his options.

He dug through all the plain white t-shirts and found an olive green shirt with red faded print. It had been from a concert his dad went to ages ago, it had small tears here and there and was worn thin. They called the look 'vintage'. John just shrugged. He guessed hipsters were into vintage. John tugged his shirt over his head and threw it off to the side and tried on the old shirt. It fit a bit snug. It only just barely covered his torso. When he lifted his arms it slid up, showing his mid-section.

John wasn't ripped but he wasn't fat either. However, he still felt self-conscious about how the shirt clung to his skin. He looked through the drawer. His other options weren't any better.

_Worse comes to worst, I'll zip up my jacket. Two more hours, how will I survive?_

He guessed he could see if anything was on telly, maybe pace around for a bit, nag at Sherlock to pick up. He left his room, ran down the stairs, and into the living area.

"Hey Sherlock, Mrs Hudson's here tonight if you need her. I'm expecting to see that bloody mess dismantled by the time I come home."

"You're really wearing _that?_ " Sherlock sneered. He was sitting in his black leather chair and had his violin bow hovering over the strings.

"What's wrong with it?" John asked with a look of concern.

"It's skin tight, very suggestive for an outing with a _friend._ "

"He's not just a friend, he's my best friend and I haven't seen him in a while."

"A whole month! How did you ever survive?" Sherlock scoffed. He started gently drawing his bow over the strings, making a barely audible tune. John listened in. He was playing the Bridal Chorus.

"Oh fucking piss off you wanker," he laughed. Sherlock started to play louder and louder to the point the whole flat was filled with 'here comes the bride.'

John sat down adjacent to Sherlock and pulled out his laptop.

"Have you been on here again?" John asked.

"Hm?" Sherlock switched his tune to his own creation that sounded like a song for a Russian fairytale.

"You've been on here again," John stated.

"Oh, what could have possibly given it away?" Sherlock chuckled.

"Oh you know, your grubby little fingerprints, the smell of your body spray lingering on the keys, or perhaps the fact that you changed my screen's wallpaper to flying penises."

"You had the default wallpaper. I thought it would spice things up a bit," Sherlock said with a wicked grin. 

"You have a computer, a nice one might I add, why did you have to use mine?"

"Mine was in the bedroom."

"What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" John sighed. "Password this time?"

"You wrote it on a sticky note and placed it on your desk, not very clever at all. Randomized it yourself, had far too predictable a pattern of alternating caps."

"Yeah, easy to predict when I write it down, isn't it?"

"Very," Sherlock giggled.

"Why do I even bother password protecting anything?"

"Passwords provide the illusion of protection. An infallible password doesn't exist."

"Oh, I will find one and you will reap the consequences."

"I'm up to the challenge," Sherlock smiled.

John looked at his watch, he still had another hour and forty-five minutes before Greg would be coming by to pick him up.

"You wanna watch some crap telly?"

"Ew, no," Sherlock grimaced.

"Cluedo?"

"Never played."

"Come on it will be fun."

Turns out. Cluedo was not fun with Mr Literal. Sherlock was supremely analytical and refused to let John tell him how anything worked. John had a slight headache after an hour and a half of fighting and long winded explanations.

"We are never playing this again," John said, clenching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"Why not?"

"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock. That's why."

"It was the only possible solution."

"It's not in the rules."

"Well, then, the rules are wrong!" Sherlock shouted. He picked up the rope and threw it at John. "A noose John? Honestly? And these!" He motioned to all the weapons. "The candle stick is a bit impractical. Could bludgeon yourself. Perhaps if you fell from a great height, maybe impaled yourself on it. Granted the height would do quite some damage on its own."

"Do you think about this often?"

"What?"

"You know... killing yourself?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock sneered. "You were the one who suggested this grotesque homicidal children's game."

"Just a question."

"More like an accusation," Sherlock glared at him. John sighed and fell back to lay on the floor. "What, are you waiting for prince charming to whisk you away?"

John grabbed the little revolver, pretended to spin the chamber, then brought it to his temple.

"Pew," John said as he fired the pretend round and feigned death on the floor.

"See, the victim could most definitely be the murderer."

They both sprang up when they heard the front door ring.

"I'll get it!" Sherlock shouted and pushed John out of the way as he sprinted for the door.

"Since when do you ever get the bloody door!"

John was fast on Sherlock's heels, they both nudged each other and pushed one another down the stairs making quite a racket before reaching the entry-way. Sherlock reached for the door handle and John pressed his hand against the door.

"Now don't you dare say anything that will lead to my imprisonment, he's a cop remember." John poked his finger in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock mimed zipping his lips. He stepped back and allowed John to open the door.

"John!"

"Greg!" There was a brief exchange of hugs. Greg pushed John back by his shoulders.

"My, let me get a good look of you. You've changed quite a bit."

"You haven't changed at all," John said grinning from ear to ear.

"Gay," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?" Greg asked, quickly looking over to Sherlock.

"Hey," Sherlock said raising his eyebrows.

"This your cousin?" Greg asked, ignoring Sherlock's outburst.

"Yeah, bit of a nuisance. And when I say 'bit' I mean he's a complete pain in the arse." John glared at Sherlock and Greg laughed. Greg reached out and tousled Sherlock's hair and Sherlock gave him a death glare.

"We'd better get going," Greg said looking John over once more.

"Oh sure, I'll just be getting my coat," John said pointing his thumb behind his shoulder. He turned and ran up the stairs excitedly. Greg looked Sherlock over, they stood in silence for a bit.

"John's cousin eh?"

"Yep," Sherlock said with a pop.

"Didn't know he had one til just the other day."

"Neither did I," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?" Greg looked at Sherlock with questioning eyes.

"Mummy didn't mention the family. We were quite distant," Sherlock explained. Greg nodded. "Only just found out when I was transferred out here. John hadn't known I was born, though he knew of the divorce."

"Some birth announcement," Greg snorted. Sherlock gave him a half-hearted grin which turned to a snarl when Greg wasn't looking. Lying came all too easy to Sherlock. He could tell this Lestrade fellow was more observant than average folk. He would have to keep a watchful eye over him, for a multitude of reasons.

John came running down the stairs once more in his leather coat.

"Hey I recognize that coat! I gave it to you for your-"

"Sixteenth birthday," John finished for him.

"Still fits," Greg looked John over from head to toe and back again. Sherlock glared. "Best be heading out then, nice to meet you Sherlock." Greg extended a hand and Sherlock shook it begrudgingly. "Try not to burn the place down while we're gone." Greg stepped outside and John turned to regard Sherlock seriously.

"No fires, and don't be fiddling with the range while I'm gone. Mrs. Hudson will be back from dinner soon, she'll likely cook you something."

"I don't need a nanny."

"Yes you do. Now make sure to get some sleep tonight, I know you didn't get any last night."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "K mum," he slammed the door in John's face and John listened to him storm up the stairs.

"You coming?" Greg asked. "Car's just there."

Greg still had the same car his parents got him for when he finished the academy. A slick black Audi sedan. It was simple yet elegant, with a leather interior. Greg had always kept it impeccably clean, inside and out. It had a new car smell for years.

They walked across Baker street and John slid into the passenger side. It was clean but had some damage to the seats as well as the car stereo. There was dirt on the floor mats, something Greg would have never allowed before. Greg slid in to the driver seat.

"I apologise for the state of the car. Bitch did a number on it," Greg scowled at the cracked dash board. "I need to take it in for detailing," he sighed as he started up the engine.

"If you don't mind me asking, what happened?" John looked at Greg who just smiled at him.

"Maybe some other time," Greg said softly. John nodded and they took off to the West end of London. "K, so this isn't the Raindance film festival everyone's been gabbing about."

_Haven't heard jack shit about any Indie Film festival._

"This is a little preview. More local folks presenting their stuff. A little less mainstream."

_Hipster._

"The ex took me to one, it was fucking amazing. The artistry. Some deep shit. The bigger festival has all these big name stars trying to be all cool playing in indie films."

John couldn't help but look at Greg while he was talking. His hair had greyed out more since John last saw him. He was plagued with salt and pepper hair at an early age and it wouldn't be long before he went full grey. It made him look highly refined and mature. His look demanded respect.

"Indie actors should be in indie films, don't you think?" Greg asked.

John's mind blanked. What the hell were they talking about?

"Yeah... sure," John said.

"Oh shit, I forgot to bring my prints."

"Prints?"

"Yeah! That hyper realism shit I was talking to you about. Doesn't matter, we'll swing by my place later so you can see em," Greg said, apologetically. John looked at him questioningly. "Next weekend we can go to this studio I found, more central London."

"Next weekend? Your place?" John furrowed his brow in concern.

"Yeah," Greg looked over at John for a moment as they pulled up to a red light. "What? I didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"I'm moving out here!"

"Oh," John said, surprised.

"You sound disappointed."

"No. No! Of course not. I'm glad. Just surprised."

"Yep, going to try Scotland Yard again."

"Well, yeah, it is your dream," John smiled. "So you've got a place already?"

"Yep, moved in last Wednesday."

"Last... Wednesday? But you said you were here for the weekend."

"I said I'd be in London, didn't say I was only staying for the weekend," Greg shrugged. "Hey, don't look all upset, I was busy was all. I would have dropped by but you have school. Don't need me as a distraction," Greg reached out his left hand and patted John's knee, tentatively before putting his hand back on the wheel.

"Well, you're here now, that's what matters," John said, giving him a half-hearted grin.

"You are going to love these films. Some of them are a real laugh. Gotta be kind though during the real serious ones, sometimes the film-makers are in the audience and they don't like folks losing it, laughing their heads off when they meant it to be serious."

"I don't stand a chance," John laughed.

* * *

John was entirely correct. He couldn't hold back his laughter. The films were entirely too cheesy for his taste. The film-makers were indeed in the audience. John felt like they were the only ones that were into the films. What set John off were the three people in the front row going all Mystery Science Theatre 3000 on the films. John snorted at their off handed comments and shouting. They were hilarious hecklers. He became uncomfortable when Greg looked at him disapprovingly.

John looked away from the film and the hecklers and spent the last half-hour staring at his shoes which he had rested on the back of someone's seat. He was bored. The film was in black and white, they used too many wide angle shots, there were times where the film was completely silent and all you could hear was the audience coughing and chomping on snacks. John looked back at a couple who were caught up in a passionate snog, making loud slurping sounds.

John rustled in his seat and slid down. He put his chin on his hand and tried to enjoy the shit film. There were loads of random scenes that had some chick's tits. It felt like breast were a common theme with indie films. One film had loads of kids and it was all focused on them in school and then suddenly two people were having sex and it all became about their parents. Then there was a shot of a side boob. John was confused on so many levels.

They sat through three films. Luckily they were about an hour a piece. They were confusing as hell and he didn't even want to hear an explanation for some of them.

"How come the baby survived a fall out of a second storey window?" John asked Greg as they headed back to the car.

"Hell if I know, French," he shrugged. "Was too busy reading the damn film to really enjoy it."

John thought it strange, with a last name like Lestrade, how do you not speak a lick of French? John understood French, he wasn't entirely fluent with speaking, but he picked up every word from the film after he had adjusted to hearing it for the first time in quite awhile.

"So, what did you think?" John asked.

"Thought they were rather shit if you ask me," Greg chuckled and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one up and handed it over to John. John looked at it. Greg nodded that it was ok and John took the fag and puffed a bit. Greg shook his head and lit himself a cigarette. "Gotta inhale it to have any effect."

John nodded sheepishly and took a light drag. He grimaced when it made his throat itch.

"Sorry I scolded you for laughing with those guys up front. Like said, film-makers are very sensitive bout their work."

"I understand." No John didn't, if Greg hated the films just as much as he did, then why didn't he laugh along?

"Spoke with your sister the other day."

John hacked on the smoke in his mouth.

"Excuse me?" he coughed, beating his chest.

"Says she's real worried bout you out here."

"Oh right," John took a deep breath. He looked at the three-quarters of a cigarette remaining between his fingers and grimaced at the thought of finishing it.

"Also says you sent her a text the other day," Greg said with a grimace. John's blood ran cold. "You wanna talk bout it?" Greg looked at him with concern in his eyes.

"I-I... It was just a thought," John shrugged and looked away, his face was bright red.

"What makes you think you're gay?" Greg asked looking his face over.

"It's... I just... It was a one time thing... I don't know... I'm all right now."

"What happened? Tell me, you can trust me." Greg put a hand on John's shoulder. John tried to turn away and Greg gave his shoulder a light squeeze.

"I was at this club and I was really, really drunk. There was this guy and I... we hooked up."

"D'you go all the way?" Greg asked with a concerned look. John looked down at his feet. Greg grabbed John's other shoulder. "John." John was trying not to start crying, he sucked back his tears and gave a small nod. "Shit John, did you use protection?" John wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. He looked up at Greg, he knew his eyes were watering, he nodded once more. "Oh bless." Greg let out a deep breath. "You know how dangerous that is? How'd you know he wasn't some psycho that'd cut you up into little pieces and dispose of you in the woods? You know that happens. Not to mention disease." Greg looked at him seriously. "You need to take care of yourself."

"I know," John sighed.

"You know the sick shit I've seen on the beat. You can't be sleeping around nowadays, there are sick fucks out there looking to mess up a little boy like you, leave you in a ditch somewhere." John was becoming aggravated with Greg's chiding. "I care is all," Greg said as he patted John's shoulder with his right hand and let go of him. He took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked it on to the street. John noticed his own cigarette fallen out of his fingers and was pleased that he wouldn't have to finish the death stick. "Right, I won't drag it out, long as you promise not to do it ever again," Greg said with a sigh. John nodded. "Good, let's go back to my place, take a look at those prints," Greg smiled and John smiled back, he wiped his eyes and got into Greg's car.

_Anything is better than a barrage of tits on a cinema screen._


	6. Chapter 6

"And these aren't photos?" John asked in amazement, thumbing through Greg's art prints.

"Look real close, some of em, you can barely make it out. It's just paint."

John looked in close to a hyper-realistic painting of a table setting. It looked all too real.

"It's a photograph, you're joshing me," John laughed. There were two wine glasses that were so crisp and clear. He stared at it a long time, it was almost too perfect. He noticed a peach on the table, in front of the fruit bowl. It lacked the same amount of clarity and stood out from the rest. It had a small smudge on the edge. "Shit... How the hell do they do that? It's amazingly realistic."

"Hyper-real," Greg grinned. Other prints were more obvious, the foreground was super clear but the background almost always looked painted. "You should see the sculptures. They're creepy as hell. Look like real people, then you see that it's just a head or they're like super huge."

"So your ex introduced you to all this... art?" John was dying to know why the bitch left him high and dry.

"Yeah... She was a free spirit," Greg sighed.

"She cheated?" John looked up from the prints to see Greg's expression.

"Nah, we were in an open relationship," Greg shrugged and John looked at him with an odd look. "She wasn't the problem, it was me apparently."

"Oh," John nodded and looked back at the prints, not wanting to make Greg feel awkward. John's mind was racing though. It was eating away at him.

"She was entirely spontaneous. Major pot-head. Open to everythin'. Well almost everythin'."

"Almost?" John didn't look up from the prints and tried to ask as disinterestedly as possible.

"You know," Greg chuckled to himself. "I thought this whole 'cousin' thing was just a cover up for you having a live in boyfriend. When your sister calls and says you're all of a sudden questioning your sexuality, kind of had my doubts." John's eyes went wide and he felt a chill down his spine. "Well then I saw how young the boy is. What's he, ten? Twelve?"

"Fourteen," John muttered.

"Yeah, can't imagine that dork showing up on my doorstep needing a place to stay. You're a saint for putting up with him."

"Yeah... a saint," John gulped.

"How old must your aunt have been? Thought she was ancient."

"No idea," John shrugged. He prayed he'd just drop it. Greg looked John over and John pretended not to notice. Greg's room was dingy and poorly maintained. It was small and narrow with very little floor space. The full sized bed took up the most space in the middle of the room, across from it was a small pedestal sink with a mirror, he had an old arm chair in one corner, and a standing lamp next to it and that was all there was to the tiny room.

There wasn't even an en suite bathroom, the nearest loo was down the hall, shared with the other tenants. Greg had a small built in closet that held all sorts of rubbish that had spilled out on to the floor when he had opened it to turn on another light in the dim room. John couldn't see out the window which was caked in filth and soot on the other side. He thought it was better that way, they were in a sketchy part of town. Lord knows what was going on outside Greg's bedroom walls.

John noticed Greg's gun in its holster, hanging on the back of the chair. He shuddered at the thought of having it so close. John took a seat on the edge of the bed and looked at the wall behind the bed. Greg smiled.

"You like it?" Greg asked.

"It's impressive. You put this whole thing together yourself?"

"Of course. Lot of time to kill."

John looked over the wall which was covered in Polaroid photos from floor to ceiling. Some were autographed, others had lip stick stains, a lot had notes written on them. Dates, locations, names. John noticed one in the centre above the headboard. It was one of him and Greg when John was only sixteen, making Greg twenty-four.

They were both laughing like maniacs. They had just come out of the lake dressed only in their pants. They were soaking wet and dripping. The camera picked up on how much John idolized the older boy. _The older man._ John wished he could remember what was so funny in that fleeting Kodak moment.

John blinked after he saw a flash. Greg pulled out the picture and shook it.

"Photo of you looking at a photo of you. Thought it was somewhat poetic," Greg smiled. He passed the developed photo to John. John held the picture by the edges and saw that Greg had caught him smiling. Another camera flash.

"Oi! Enough with the photo-ception," John laughed.

"It's not often I see you smiling these days, wanted to capture it on film."

"It's not often you see me these days." John regretted saying it the moment the words passed his lips. Greg looked at John a moment.

"I'm real sorry bout the whole drama with the flat."

"It's all right."

"No, it's not. I should have never run off with the bitch, sticking you with the full rent. You were right, I hardly knew her."

"Why did you ever run off with her then?" John tried not to sound like he was whining.

"Got her knocked up," Greg sighed.

"Oh..." John looked away. "She's... keeping it?"

"Yeah, she's living with her parents. They're kind of going after me and my family full force for medical bills, future child support, you know," Greg let out another sigh and took a seat next to John on the bed.

"Sucks."

"Does," Greg agreed.

"How come, you two split then?"

"You aren't going to let up are you?" Greg laughed. "Gonna badger me til I tell you," Greg shook his head. "Well, you oughta know anyhow." Greg took in a deep breath and let it out. "We were in an open relationship. She was sleeping around, some guy. Then she got all in a huff cos I was sleeping around as well."

"Yeah but you're in an open relationship, how could she think it's ok if she goes off and fucks some guy but you can't be with anyone else?"

"I was sleeping with the same guy."

"Oh," Was all John could say. He was a bit shell shocked. Gregory Lestrade, captain of the football team, the lady-killer, talk of the town, dated the local beauty Queen, had endless amounts of girls at his disposal, and suddenly he was not so straight after all.

"That was the start of it. She was a free spirit but she was beyond homophobic. All her friends were. It enraged me how closed minded they were. Enraged me to the point I had at least five other blokes before she dumped my arse."

"You've been with... multiple partners?"

"Oh don't give me that look. I knew every single last one of them, unlike you. I still cannot believe you would put yourself in such danger," Greg chided. John's body felt a rush of chills when Greg reached out touched his face gently as he stroked his hair behind his ear. He pulled his hand away slowly and placed it back on his lap. John's mind was racing, he was in fight or flight mode. "So did you top or bottom?" Greg asked, looking deep in John's eyes.

"Did... I what?" John looked at him confused.

"Were you on the giving or receiving end?" Greg laughed at John's confusion. John's heart was pounding in his chest, he couldn't think clearly. He felt weird.

_I was on every end._

"I'm sorry, I don't understand..." John shook his head.

"Oh come on, it's not that difficult. Who fucked who?"

"I don't... I don't know... I guess I did him." John was shaking and didn't know quite why. He didn't like where this conversation was heading, how it was making him feel.

"So how d'you know you're gay?" Greg asked him plainly.

"Erm... what?"

"Never had a man take you, how do you know you're gay?"

"Do... you have to? Can't you just... you know... just like boys?" John shrugged. The room suddenly felt cold, John was shivering slightly. He couldn't look Greg straight in the eye.

"Me and these guys, mates of mine, we have this theory. Can't call yourself gay unless you've bottomed at least once. Don't have to like it, just gotta still be gay after it's all said and done."

John's heart was drumming in his ears, he felt dizzy, and sick to his stomach. This all felt wrong. Greg reached out and grabbed John's hand firmly.

"Don't you want your first time to be with someone you know? Someone you trust?" Greg asked. John could feel Greg's sorrowful gaze burning the side of his face. John was terrified to look at him.

Greg slid closer to John on the bed, their knees were touching, John's heart was racing. Greg let go of John's hand and raised his hand to pull John's chin up. "Look at me John," he said softly. "We can stop, any time you like, if it becomes too much for you."

It was already too much for John. He was scared, he wasn't ready. Yet he wasn't willing to disappoint Greg and let him down.

John didn't have enough time to get his feelings together. He had only just started realizing his feelings for guys, not even two weeks ago. It was all moving too fast.

His fears grew without bounds when Greg leaned in and their lips met.

It didn't feel anything like the night club kiss. Passion and longing were in the night club kiss. John's mind was racing with apprehension and he was repressing the strong urge to run away. It would have been simple to just walk away if it had been anyone but Greg.

John was still trying to analyse his true feelings for him when he felt Greg's tongue slip into his mouth. He had always idolized Greg. He had been jealous of Greg's massive amount of girlfriends that took Greg's attention away from him. Did that mean he wanted to be one?

Greg had quick hands, he was already half way done unbuttoning John's jeans and pulling down his zip when John looked down. Greg helped John out of his heavy leather jacket. He ran a hand sensually up John's chest and brought it to rest on John's shoulder. Greg had always been straight forward, right to the point. Greg made quick work of his own jeans, letting the fly undone. He pulled John in for a more frantic, lip crushing kiss.

John's lips were burning from Greg's stubble. They were starting to go numb. He wasn't entirely sure he enjoyed such an abrasive kiss. John could taste nicotine on Greg's tongue. He smelled quite different from John, his cologne was musky, and his jacket reeked of tobacco smoke.

Greg slid his hand down the front of John's pants and he started groping him. Greg broke the kiss and motioned for John to do the same. John uneasily placed his hand down Greg's pants and fondled him gently. Greg moaned and he stopped moving his hand, he lay his palm flat against John's cock. John continued to stroke Greg who was biting his lower lip and thrusting up into John's hand.

Greg was already fully hard and John was becoming more and more worried about what was coming next. Greg removed his hand from John's crotch and moved it to start groping John's arse. John lifted up off the bed a little. Greg was looking John over in such lust and desire it was making John uncomfortable to look at him.

"Roll over."

John jumped at Greg's voice. John merely nodded and removed his hand from inside Greg's jeans. Greg stood up off the bed and pulled a condom packet out of his pocket. He removed his jacket and tossed it off to the side. John looked at Greg who was sliding down his jeans, revealing his cock. What it lacked in size it made up for in thickness. John grimaced and his legs tensed.

John's head was spinning but he rolled over on to his stomach, turning his back to Greg. He heard the condom wrapper rip open, the sound of sticky latex being stretched, Greg's heavy breathing. John put his head in his hands and said a short prayer. He jumped when he felt Greg's hand on his hip.

"Sh, it's just me," Greg chuckled softly.

Greg slid down John's pants, around his arse, then down to his knees. John tensed. He felt both of Greg's hands start massaging his arse.

"Mm. Never had a virgin before," Greg hummed. John felt Greg's latex covered penis rub against him. John shuddered and closed his eyes tight. "Just so you know, I take mine rough." He pulled apart John's cheeks and lined himself up with John's entrance.

John was completely unprepared for the rapid breach and the tearing feeling. Pain shot up from John's toes and travelled to the tips of his fingers. He dug his fingers into the bedsheets and tried to pull away. Greg held him firmly by the hips and took another thrust. It was less rough than the first but the pain was still knife sharp. He felt it in his kidneys and it made his back arch. His teeth were clenched so tight he felt they might chip.

Greg had stopped, he also had his teeth clenched, he was sweating and panting.

"God, you're so fucking tight." He was buried inside John and John's insides were throbbing. He was still in quite some pain but it had let up and become a more dull constant pain. The stretching feeling wasn't at all pleasant. Around John's entrance was the worst.

John's nose started dripping, he felt a tear roll down his cheek. It was too much for him but he couldn't bare to tell Greg. His heart wasn't racing any more, but it drummed loudly in his chest.

"Relax, I've got you," Greg said stroking John's lower back. John closed his eyes and let his death grip loosen on the bedsheets. John was nearing a state of calm, when Greg pulled back, gripped John's hips tight, and with speed and precision started taking John, hard. Greg's rapid thrusts were causing blinding pain for John. John shot up onto his hands and he couldn't control the sounds coming out of him. He was brought to screaming.

John thought that Greg must have mistaken this for a sign of pleasure because he kept going, full force. All John could see was white, soon the sharp stinging pain turned to mixed signals. John was going numb, all he felt was stretching. He started whimpering. His elbows buckled and his head fell into his hands. He started moaning not sure what he was feeling.

It wasn't pain or pleasure.

"Hurts so good, doesn't it?" Greg grunted, he let go of John's hips and leaned onto the bed with his fists. John's mouth was open, he was panting, running his hands through his hair, wishing Greg would come already. "You like that?" Greg asked and John nodded, hoping he'd shut up. "Oh yeah." Greg was pressing John into the mattress, crushing him with his weight with every downward thrust.

John's shirt was becoming soaked with sweat. He regretted wearing such a suggestive shirt. It clung to him so tight and rode up his midsection, it was undeniably too sexy a top for him. Greg's thrusts were becoming more frantic John was praying he was close. Greg leaned back once more and grabbed John's hips tighter than before, he felt a tight pain from Greg's finger tips digging into his skin, leaving bruises.

Then, right in the middle of harshly pounding away at John's arse, Greg's body jerked. He came to an abrupt halt. John let out a sigh of relief. He winced as Greg loosened his grip on his hips. Greg slid out of John and he immediately felt empty. A million emotions were rushing to him at once.

"Loo's down the hall, why don't you get yourself cleaned up?" Greg asked, panting. He pulled the condom off and threw it into the popcorn tin he used as a waste bin. Greg ran his hands through his hair and let out a deep breath. "Oh, don't let the blood scare you, it's normal."

_Blood?_

John felt queasy. He was fine with anyone else's blood but his own. John slowly scooted back on his hands and brought himself to standing. He winced in pain and clenched his arse. He bent down as slowly as he could to pull up his pants and jeans.

Greg brushed past him and laid down on the bed. He crossed his legs, put his hands behind his head, and started to laugh as John started limping to the door. His laugh was booming and unnecessarily loud. John turned back and couldn't help but scowl.

"Sorry," Greg said pounding his chest as he started coughing. He was trying to hold back a smile. John looked dolefully at the ground and tried to walk with more ease toward the door. His arse burned, his insides ached, he was feeling an odd pressure in his lower abdomen. He opened the door and stepped out into the frigid hallway.

He felt his arse cheeks sliding together with wetness. He started sniffing when he felt a bead of that wetness rolling down the back of his thigh and down his leg. His face contorted, he almost didn't make it to the bathroom before he started to cry. He pulled down his pants and sat on the toilet. He put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth sobbing. He started shaking uncontrollably.

Sitting was causing a painful strain on his arse hole. He wrapped his hand like a mummy in toilet tissue and wiped, not daring to look at the blood. There wasn't much at all, but in John's state he felt like he was bleeding out and would surely die from blood loss. He stood up and flushed. He shuffled over to the sink to wash the trail off his leg that the tiny bead of blood had left.

He looked himself over. The damage wasn't as bad as it could have been. However, he was a complete emotional wreck. He couldn't even look at his face in the mirror. He leaned into the sink and looked down.

_I should just go home._

He remembered his coat in Greg's room. It had his mobile and pocketbook. "Shit," John whispered into the sink. He pushed away, pulled his jeans up all the way, fastened them, and hobbled back through the hall. He reached Greg's door and took in a deep breath. He opened the door to see Greg in the bed, puffing away at a cigarette.

"All better?" Greg asked. John nodded sheepishly and rubbed his arm.

"I'd better get going, Sherlock's gonna start worrying." John covertly wiped away a tear that had formed in the corner of his eye.

"He's old enough to take care of himself."

_He can't though._

"Come on, spend the night," Greg said patting the bedside. "In the morning I'll take you out, we'll have a day to ourselves. It'll be fun."

"I really shouldn't, Sherlock's on his own and-"

"Really John, you're not his mum, he can handle himself."

John walked over to the bed the best he could without limping. He gingerly sat himself next to Greg who pulled out a cigarette for John. John took it between his fingers and grimaced on the inside. He hated smoking, knew what kind of damage it could do, even with infrequent use.

He allowed Greg to light the tip and drew in a light drag. He exhaled with a sigh.

"Kids his age need their space any how. Gotta let go of em someday," Greg said as if he had kids of his own.

"He can't even tie his laces," John said sadly and Greg snorted. "It's true. He's really just a kid."

"Gotta grow up sometime," Greg chuckled and took in a long drag. When he exhaled, smoke escaped his nose, making him look like a fire breathing dragon. He looked toward John and smiled. He snuffed out the end of his cigarette on the bed post and flicked it in the direction of the bin. He went to pull out another and John handed him his. Greg laughed. "Not much of a smoker?"

John shook his head.

Greg wrapped an arm around John's shoulder and pulled him close. John lay his head on Greg's chest.

"Still gay?" Greg asked leaning down and leaving a kiss on John's head.

"Yeah."

"Good." Greg drew him in even closer. John sighed and closed his eyes. He hadn't been held in quite some time. Too long ago to remember even. It was so soothing being in Greg's strong arms. He started nodding off. Snapping awake every once in a while. "S'all right," Greg said, rubbing John's back. Greg started humming causing his ribs to vibrate. John's face was pressed firmly against his chest and Greg's heart beat was drumming in John's ear.

Greg started lightly singing. He had a lovely singing voice. He was a church choir boy growing up. John's jaw went slack, he felt like he was on a calm ocean, being gently rocked to sleep by tiny waves that coursed through his veins. He fell into a deep sleep.

His dream was wild. So many vivid oranges, reds, and yellows. The sky looked as if someone had painted it, yet objects closer to him were hyper clear. Birds began diving into the ocean, not resurfacing. A flaming Zeppelin flew overhead. John looked down at the sand between his toes, it started sucking his feet in. John had to constantly lift his feet up to keep from being dragged under. A hand reached out and pulled him through space and time to his flat on Baker Street.

He looked back at who had saved him and he saw Sherlock's brilliant green-blue eyes. Sherlock smiled the same way he had when they first kissed. He looked ages older, much more mature, he was in his purple shirt. John reached out to stroke Sherlock's face. It was so smooth, like silk. He closed his eyes and fell forward to kiss Sherlock, only to meet Greg's abrasive lips. John pulled away and Sherlock came to apparition once more. He had become a statue, cut off at the shoulders, etched in perfect detail. _But he had looked so real._

John's dream became more staggered and broken like a busted old film that had been played one too many times. He awoke to the early morning's light. His face was still pressed against Greg's chest. They had slid under the covers and Greg was still fast asleep.

_No night terror._

His throat was only rough from smoking last night, he didn't have the tell-tale signs that he had woken up screaming. He wrapped his arm tight around Greg's torso and rubbed his face against his chest. He sighed. He had a great night's sleep even with the odd dream. He felt well rested, though his backside was still sore.

Greg's eyes fluttered open. "Fuck, time is it?" Greg grumbled, rubbing his hand over his stubble. He stretched his arms and groaned. "Can't be past seven." He scratched his belly and squinted. "How's your arse?"

"Fine?" John looked up at him.

"Sorry if I was a bit rough on it last night."

"It's all right," John lied. He felt that Greg had almost made up for it, holding him while he slept. He groaned as Greg slid off the bed.

"Don't feel human less I get a shower in the morning. Needa shave as well," Greg said, running a hand down his throat.

_Couldn't have shaved last night before ripping half my face off?_

Greg went to the closet, pulled out towels and his shave kit.

"Only one toilet on this floor, you needa take a leak..." Greg pointed to the sink. John gave him a look of concern. "You do what you gotta do," he said lifting his eyebrows and shrugging. He left the room and John shivered.

Of course John's body had the overwhelming urge to pee now.

_God damnit._

Who knew how long Greg was going to take prettying himself up. He had always driven John crazy when they had to be somewhere and Greg took his dear old sweet time in front of the mirror fixing up his hair with various products; telling John how much the ladies loved to see a bloke who was well groomed. You could be the most disgusting bloke in the world, sleep in a pile of filth, live with twenty cats, but if you were clean shaven with your hair done up, ladies would be lining up round the block to be Mrs. Watson.

As a kid, John always had dirt under his nails and his sandy blonde hair often had sand in it. He wasn't filthy, he just loved being outdoors. Exploring, going on adventures. His favourite thing to do was run away from home. He'd pack a small suitcase and his rucksack. His mum would make him sandwiches and he'd kiss her good-bye, never to return.

"Don't cross any major roads!" she'd shout.

"Mum! How'm I supposed to run away then?"

"Up to the farm and don't be in the woods when it gets dark."

And with that, John would be off. He'd usually get bored by sundown. Come home when he was hungry or hurt. A few times they had to send Greg out looking for him. He'd hide if he heard his parents or the Lestrades shouting for him. He'd come out of hiding for Greg though, convince him to run away with him. Share his sandwiches.

When he went off to uni, John was devastated. He didn't even say good-bye the day Greg left, he hid in his room under his bed. John grew up fast while Greg was away, but every summer Greg would come back the same, he was the only constant in John's life.

His parent's marriage was held together by a thin thread. Their faith forced them to live under the same roof. They were devout Christians. Sherlock hadn't known how right he was about repressing any feelings of being gay. John remembered being confused a few times. He'd never tell his parents though, they spoke around the dinner table about camps for little boys and girls that had those kind of feelings.

It scared the gay out of John. Yet it didn't scare his sister one bit. She went to one of those camps and came back gayer than ever. She surprisingly held his parents together with their hatred of the gays. It was a driving force for them to work together, to cure their daughter, while their younger son was ignored. John remembered the day she left, she was hand in hand with Clara, being screamed at close to her face. John could see the love and devotion in Clara's eyes and the defiance in his sister's. She was who she was. Still, it killed her inside being so rejected by her parents.

Their dad dropped dead of a heart-attack while he was in the vault at work. There was no saving him when he was found. At his father's wake, his sister never left her dead father's side. When John reached the casket, his hands shook as he placed a note to his father near him, not wanting to touch his cold hands. John feared that he'd jerk to life and grab him. He'd never seen a dead person before, it didn't feel real.

He waited, seated in the front room, his head bent, staring at the ground, fiddling with his hands. He silently nodded as everyone said their sincerest apologies and told him that his dad had left him too soon. John was messing with his tie when he felt a strong warm hand on his back. He jumped to his feet seeing Greg, who had left uni to attend the wake and memorial service. He hadn't cried once, from hearing the news to seeing his father's body, but when Greg showed up out of the blue he started crying uncontrollably into his suit jacket.

Now sitting on Greg's bed in a creepy old building, with his arse sore, he was confused like none other about how he felt about Greg. He had provided him so much comfort and pleasant memories growing up, but what he did last night frightened John. It was like all of his life was building up to this moment and John didn't like it one bit.

The way he had come on to John, used his trust to get him to touch him, kiss him. He felt used. Yet it wasn't as though he was a victim of a fuck and run. He held him throughout the night, kept him from having a night terror. His dream was only slightly nightmarish. He hadn't felt so comfortable in a long time.

His feelings were conflicting but he had the overwhelming urgency to pee, so he shoved his emotions down, just like old times, and sprang up to go to the sink. He was sore but it didn't hurt as much to walk. John reached the sink and undid his zip. He rocked forward on to his toes and awkwardly shuffled to take aim. He found it quite difficult to relieve himself into a sink even though he was quite full of piss.

He was being pee-shy without anyone around to see it. The embarrassment of using a sink was enough to stop him up. It didn't help he was too short to reach without standing on tip-toe.

"Come on," he willed.

The door swung open and John fell backwards.

"Loo's open," Greg said casually, brushing his hair with a towel. He laughed at John who was scrambling to zip up his jeans. John blushed and ran out into the hall. He rounded the corner into the loo and quickly shut the door behind him and undid his jeans. He groaned as he relieved himself fully. He let out a sigh of relief and flushed. He put himself back together and zipped up his fly.

He stumbled out of the bathroom and noticed tenants starting to come out of their rooms and head down the stairs. He moved swiftly into Greg's room and avoided meeting their gaze.

"How come everyone's headed down stairs?" John asked shutting the door behind him.

"Breakfast."

"So... everyone eats together?"

"It's a boarding house."

"How come they're all blokes?"

"It's a gay boarding house."

John made an 'O' with his mouth. Then raised his eyebrows and smacked his lips.

"Well then," John said putting his hands in his pockets. Greg laughed.

"Don't worry, they ain't gonna gang rape you."

John furrowed his brow.

"I wasn't thinking that at all."

"You were," Greg nodded his head.

"Not some... gaycist," John felt awkward using Mike's word.

"Wanna bet?" Greg asked, going to his closet and searching through his clothes. "You don't know the first thing about the culture."

"Culture?" John had heard that from Mike as well, what the hell did that even mean?

"Yeah, _culture,_ " Greg said giving John a look. He returned his attention to his clothing options. "Ain't a strict gay district in London. West end has a shit ton of gays though." Greg gave John a nod "What you know bout Soho?"

"Porn," John shrugged and Greg snorted.

"Bet your mum told you to steer clear of Soho the second you said you were looking at going to school out here." John remembered his mum telling him about the smut and filth, the prostitutes, the gays. "In her day yeah. Sex capital of the world. Now it's all fashion."

"Fashion?" John raised an eyebrow and grimaced.

"Clothes, coffee shops, music, films, _art,_ " Greg pulled out a button down shirt and a pair of black leather trousers. John's eyes went wide at the trousers. "What?" Greg looked him over. "Don't give me that look."

"Since when did you start dressing like..."

"A queer?" Greg offered.

"No like, you gave a shit about fashion."

"This is far from fashionable," Greg said looking at the outfit on the hanger. "Just don't want to stand out in the valley of queer." Greg placed the hanger on the door handle and dropped his towel. "You should be fine in what you're in, just stick close to me and you'll be fine." He threw John a stick of deodorant.

"How come I have to stick close?" John asked, lifting his shirt to apply the deodorant to his underarms.

"Skin tight shirt, short, young, pretty little arse like yours? Not to mention, you're walking a bit funny," Greg snorted. He slid on some tight speedo briefs. "They'll be all over you. I'd be surprised if you didn't get passed the front door without at least a few cat calls," Greg laughed. John looked down at his shirt in concern. "Oh don't worry your pretty little head. Not everyone's like that. You know... just a few rotten apples out there, spoiling the bunch." Greg shimmied into his trousers, they were a snug fit. Tight around the crotch.

John was feeling self-conscious in jeans and a t-shirt. No matter the fit of the shirt. It was just like at the club when everyone was in button downs, John didn't even own a button down. He doubted he'd be able to pull one off without looking like he was expected back in his cubical by four.

Greg pulled on his shirt, shrugging it over his shoulders, he buttoned up all but the last two, leaving part of his chest exposed. The shirt barely fit, the buttons were straining. Black on black, he looked outstanding. It made his silver hairs stand out in contrast. John had been worrying about the age difference between them. Greg was just so much more mature and comfortable with himself. John was still technically a teenager.

Greg started obsessing over his hair in the mirror, running a comb, fingers, and product, through it. Sticking it up, flattening it out. He teased it with his fingers, then would fix it up. He saw the reflection of John rolling his eyes.

"Hey, saw that," Greg sucked in his bottom lip and continued fussing with his hair. "Should let me do yours."

"M'hairs fine thanks," John said with a bit of sass.

"Yer hair's a train wreck, needs a trim," Greg remarked. John's hair was getting a bit shaggy, he usually just cut it short once it touched his ears. It had grown well past that point now, the front was touching his eyebrows, the back had a slight curl along the bottom. He didn't get it cut that summer with everything going on. "Could go to a salon, might get my greys blended in better. Ever had a gay man cut your hair?" Greg asked and John shook his head. "They're _fabulous._ " Greg lisped and John giggled. "You could do like a military cut, a lil crew cut, it'd suit you."

"Whatever you say."

_Next he'll have me joining the service. Royal Navy. Rear Admiral._


	7. Chapter 7

"SHUT UP!"

John walked in to find Sherlock screaming at the carbon monoxide detector. John took a step forward and Sherlock proceeded to rip the device from the wall, toss it into the air, and drop kick it to the other side of the flat. It gave one last shrill beep in defiance before going silent.

"Christ Sherlock!"

"It was broken!" Sherlock shouted, he was breathing heavily. "Going off every thirty bleeding seconds!"

"Its battery was probably low!"

"It was beeping!"

"That's what it does!" John tried to lower his voice. "Seriously Sherlock, is this how you fix things? By punting them cross the room?" Sherlock watched John as he walked over to retrieve the device.

"Ah that's disgusting! You had sex with him?" John bent down to pick up the detector and winced at the slight stretch. He stood up.

"It's none of your business." John furrowed his brow. "And yes, yes I did."

"Got your hair cut as well." Sherlock said folding his arms.

"Yes, I did that as well."

"Looks... nice. Suits you better."

"Greg thought so as well." Sherlock snarled and unfolded his arms, he walked towards John.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock growled.

Sherlock and John both jumped out of their skins when the carbon monoxide detector chirped. John dropped it to the floor "Ah!" Sherlock yelled.

"God! It's back from the dead!"

"Kill it!" Sherlock said stomping on it.

"Take the battery out!" John yelled. Sherlock picked it up and started digging his nails into the battery cover.

"It won't come loose!" The device chirped again and both boys jumped. They started giggling.

"The damned things possessed." John said. "Here give it to me."

"I have a better idea." Sherlock walked to the open window and threw it like a Frisbee out on to Baker Street. He watched with a wicked smile as it crashed and broke into a million pieces on the pavement below. Sherlock wiped his hands together and raised his eyebrows. "There!" John started giggling like a school girl.

"Mrs. Hudson's gonna kill us." he took in a deep breath. "What if there's actually carbon monoxide in the flat?"

"Oh we'd have suffocated long before we'd heard the alarm." Sherlock shrugged.

"That's good to know."

Sherlock's smile faded. "So why are you here?" he asked.

"Thought you'd fancy some lunch." John shrugged.

"Yeah... I'm starved." Sherlock grinned.

"Good, I'll go get dressed. Greg's waiting in the car."

"Unhhhh" Sherlock whined. "Not him!" Sherlock threw his head back and moaned.

"Don't be such a child. We-"

"Oh my God, you're a 'we' now. Should I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Oh shut up and get dressed."

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" Sherlock said looking himself over.

"You look like you just came off the red carpet at the Oscars. Who wears a suit to lounge around in?"

"Me?"

"Looks bloody expensive."

"Better be, Spencer Hart." John looked at him all confused. "Savile Row, ring a bell?" He looked at John through half-lidded eyes. "Of course it doesn't, you have the fashion sense of a toddler." Sherlock looked him over with a judgmental gaze. "Jeans and t-shirt? Really John. Can't you be a little more creative?"

John threw his hands in the air "Fine! You want fashion sense! I'll beat you fashion senseless." John turned and left the living area to run up to his room. He was going to show Sherlock fashion.

He flung his door open and started steaming with anger. He went to his dresser and pulled out his tightest fitting jeans, he grabbed the switch blade knife off of his bedside table. He laid the jeans on the bed and start sawing at them, scoring them up the legs, ripping open holes.

After he had thoroughly destroyed a perfectly good pair of Levis, he threw the knife on the bed, and turned to search his shirt drawer. He started throwing shirt after shirt on to the floor until he reached the bottom and found the perfect one, tags still on. He quickly stripped and threw on his outfit.

He rushed down the stairs in his 'new' threads and ran into the living area.

"Well?" He asked Sherlock, holding his arms up. Sherlock looked him over, head to toe and back again. While John was busy upstairs, Sherlock had changed into some skinny jeans, a grey t-shirt, and a zip-up hoodie, making him look very much his actual age.

"A black and white striped t-shirt and some cut up jeans..." Sherlock rubbed his lips together, back and forth, thinking. "Jeans are bit tight." Sherlock looked directly at John's bulge. "Doesn't leave much to the imagination."

"Neither do yours."

"You lookin?" Sherlock bit his bottom lip and lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

"Come on, the car's running." Sherlock went running after John down the stairs. He shoved John out of the way to make it down first. John jumped from the third step and lunged for the door first, he pressed Sherlock away by his face and left the flat first. Sherlock gave him a shove out on Baker Street and John shoved him back. Sherlock let out a low throaty laugh and John giggled.

"Boys, settle down." Greg said looking at them, embarrassed by their behaviour in public. Their lack of maturity. "Like the shirt." John looked down as if he forgot what he was wearing.

"Thanks." Greg turned to open the car door. Sherlock made a kissy face at John and John not so secretly flipped him off.

"Dibs on the front seat." Sherlock said running to the car. He grabbed the passenger side's door handle.

"Nuh-uh! Age trumps!" John said smacking Sherlock's hand off the car door. Sherlock gave him a shove and John quickly put Sherlock in a head lock. Sherlock tapped and John let go and shoved him away. "Back of the bus kid." Sherlock brushed off his jacket and fixed his collar as if he was still wearing a suit.

Greg was waiting in the driver seat tapping the steering wheel with his finger.

"You done?" He gave John a shrewish glare.

"What Greggie, it's only a bit of fun." Sherlock said tousling Greg's hair, making Greg scowl.

"Mitts off the hair, k?" he hissed through clenched teeth. Sherlock grinned wickedly, putting his newly gained knowledge of Greg's pet peeve in his back pocket. Sherlock sat in the middle of the seats on the hump and leaned in. "Buckle up." Greg said shortly.

"You're not my real dad." Sherlock frowned and leaned back. John held back a laugh. Sherlock slid to the right side, right behind Greg, and put his safety belt on. He dug his knees into the back of Greg's chair. Greg gritted his teeth and pulled out onto the street. Sherlock grabbed a ball from his jacket pocket and started bouncing it off the roof of the car.

"Where we going?" He asked. Greg let out an aggravated grunt.

"Mayfair, now would you please stop that insufferable racket." Sherlock bounced the ball off the ceiling with more earnest.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded.

"Because it's annoying." Greg sneered.

"Why?" Sherlock was grinning from ear to ear. Greg groaned.

"We should have left you at home" Greg growled.

"I would've starved to death! John would've never let you live that one down." Sherlock leaned forward and patted Greg on the shoulder. He threw the ball on to the floor and let it roll under the seat. Sherlock turned to the side and brought his legs up on to the seat and lounged out in the back.

"Sherlock, sit forward, and get your feet off my seats."

"Why?"

"Don't!" Greg shouted and hit the breaks a little bit too rough at a red light. He turned around and looked at Sherlock. "Don't start with me young man." John shrunk down in seat. He was the one who suggested Sherlock come along for lunch. He was going to see if they could take him to the art exhibit as well. John didn't have high hopes that Greg wouldn't strangle him by the end of the outing.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat forward in his seat. "You're no fun."

"Life's not all fun and games kid." Sherlock made faces at Greg in the mirror. John slunk down further in his seat, pretending not to exist. Why did he have to pick a fight with Greg of all people? Why couldn't Sherlock just be utterly indifferent to him like he was to the rest of the world?

"Whatevs" Sherlock said stuffing his ear buds in his ears. He drew his hood up over his head, undid his safety belt and lay down on the bench seat. He cranked the volume up on his phone as high it could go.

"Don't let him get to you." John said sitting up in his seat.

"He's not." Greg had his lips pursed, his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

_He's just a kid. Why is Greg in such a huff all over Sherlock's childish antics?_

"Bloody hell. What is he listening to back there?" Greg asked looking back and glaring at Sherlock who was tapping his foot against the window.

"Classical, it's all he listens to."

"Don't sound like no Mozart to me."

"Oh well, you see, he's on a Russian composer kick of late."

"Sounds all demented and shit."

"It's a bit dark I suppose." John shrugged, looking out the window. John quite liked Sherlock's choice in music. It was different. Classical music can be so boring. Sherlock had an interesting taste in composers. Though he did play the same old same old, Beethoven, Mozart, Bach. He had a broad range of musical taste and talent.

John couldn't even begin to pronounce some of the names of the wild composers Sherlock listened to. Try saying Ippolitov-Ivanov five times fast, Sherlock could, and he did. The kid never shut up for two seconds once he got going. John was still waiting for him to be quiet for hours on end like he promised he would.

The only time he was quiet was when he was attacking his violin with his bow. He'd play for hours on end, in the middle of the night, and into the wee hours of the morning. He would go from playing like a concert violinist to sounding like he was drawing his bow over a disgruntled cat at four in the morning. Which was quite possible. Sherlock had a thing for picking up stray cats, rubbing them the wrong way, running little experiments on them, and then setting them off into the world, disoriented and confused.

One stupid cat kept coming back, he was always in Mrs. Hudson's bins, he absolutely adored Sherlock. Even though Sherlock pulled at his tail, flicked his whiskers, and even fed him home-made tranquillizers once. John had screamed at Sherlock from the upstairs window to leave the bloody thing alone. Sherlock ignored him and tried to see how far he could push the cat before it snapped and scratched his face off.

Sherlock loved living on the edge, pressing his luck. He wanted to see how far he could push Greg before he'd snap. Obviously, it didn't take much. Sherlock pressed pause on his phone and shouted, "Where are we going?"

"I already told you, Mayfair." Greg said with a sneer.

"I know, but where are we going to eat?" Sherlock responded with equal harshness.

"At a sushi bar."

"Unh, I'll wait in the car."

"Sherlock, you have to eat." John said looking back at him concerned.

"Raw fish doesn't appeal to me." Sherlock said raising his eyebrows and shrugging.

"It's not just raw fish! And it's got all the same stuff as fish n chips. Omega 3's, rice's got starch, there's fermented soy sauce. There's protein... sodium... whole bunch of other shit. It's brain food."

"It's not!" Sherlock shouted. "Where's the lipids? Where's the grease? My mind craves fats!"

"Yeah, wouldn't it? You and your big ol' fat head." John chuckled.

"My head's not big." Sherlock huffed.

"Fine, what you wanna eat then?" John asked.

"Don't give in to him." Greg said scowling at John. "The spoiled brat, he's gonna have sushi and like it." John looked away. He didn't like sushi either. It was more of Greg's choice.

"I don't know... could go for some fish n chips." John said sheepishly, sliding down in his seat once more. Sherlock grinned.

"Stop coddling him, it won't do any one in this car any bit of good if you let in and cater to his every whim." John looked at the floor embarrassed.

The restaurant was nightmarishly busy. John was sitting next to Sherlock, with Greg across from them. Sherlock was acting more odd than normal. He had his shoulders drawn in, trying to take up as little space as possible. John was going to ask what was wrong, but he didn't want to be a 'coddler' or whatever. Greg had pretty much ordered for them after Sherlock tried to order desert for lunch.

John picked at his lunch, not feeling too hungry. He shifted in the hard seat. Sherlock grabbed the soy sauce dispenser and started drowning his sushi in it. John grinned.

"You gonna eat that?" He started giggling.

"Course." Sherlock grinned as if it was a dare. He popped a whole piece of sushi into his mouth and grinned.

"Oh, yuck." John said laughing. Greg wasn't paying attention, he was thumbing through his phone's messages. John pointed to the pile of green wasabi on Sherlock's plate. He and Sherlock exchanged looks and grinned. They each piled on as much wasabi as they could on to their sushi. John held out his fingers to count down '3, 2, 1'. They both popped the wasabi laden sushi into their mouths.

John's eyes immediately began to water, his nose was burning, his ears were red. But it was nothing compared Sherlock's reaction. Sherlock's face was purple, his eyes were clamped shut, he was wincing in pain. He let out a deep breath. "Woo" he said coughing. John was chuckling, his nose was still on fire. Sherlock had tears streaming down the side of his face.

"Oi, you two. Knock it off." Greg said looking up from his phone. "Grow up." He said popping a piece of sushi in his mouth. John shook his head and looked at Sherlock who was still red in the face. He wished he could enjoy a moment, just dicking around.

He felt like a kid again around Sherlock. A lot of the time it was actually fun hanging out with the little pervert. The awkward fact that they had once had sex still lingered in the back of John's mind, but it was dampened by Sherlock's free spirit and numerous quirks. So what if he was immature? He was a teenager for Christ's sake.

Sherlock was fast becoming the brother he had never had. He thought of how much fun it would have been having a younger brother. Some one to boss around, teach stuff, get into trouble with. Harry wasn't any fun growing up, they had never gotten along, still didn't. Sometimes he felt he didn't even have a sister.

John sighed and continued to poke at the fillings of his sushi roll. Greg returned his gaze to his mobile. John felt something wet and sticky hit his cheek and stick. He wiped it off with disgust. It was a piece of ginger. He looked to Sherlock who was looking away out the window pretending not to notice.

A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lip.

_Oh it's on._

John grabbed a small handful of ginger off his plate and flung it at Sherlock.

"John!" Greg shouted looking up from his phone.

"He started it." John said, quite childishly. Greg rolled his eyes.

"I'm dropping you both off at the flat when we're done here." Sherlock flung a piece of ginger at Greg and it stuck in the middle of his forehead. John started giggling so hard it hurt his sides. Sherlock grinned from ear to ear. Greg slammed his napkin down, pulled the piece of ginger off his forehead, and threw it on the table. He stood up. "Good luck finding your own ride home." He turned and stormed out of the sushi bar.

John and Sherlock laughed uncontrollably at Greg's outburst.

"What a drama queen." Sherlock laughed.

"You see his face?" John looked at Sherlock. "Great shot." He chuckled.

"Ten quid, he sends you a text apologising 'I'm so sorry John, please don't let this affect what we have. That Sherlock kid is just such a twerp. Please, please, see me again.'" Sherlock held his hands to his heart. "I've always loved you John, since the day you were born."

"Oh shut up, you perv." John pushed Sherlock away. Sherlock leaned into John's hand.

"Kiss me John, I'm an artist!" Sherlock puckered his lips. "I'm all sensitive and sensual."

"Oh, gross, piss off, you're supposed to be my cousin."

"We're kissing cousins!" Sherlock said wrapping his arms around John. He pecked his cheek and John started struggling to get out of his grip. Sherlock tightened his hold and started rocking them back and forth. He let go and John near tumbled out of the booth.

"Can you not be a creeper for two seconds?"

"Let me try. Nope." they laughed. The waitress brought over their check and some fortune cookies. "That's odd... Why would a Japanese restaurant hand out fortune cookies? Granted they aren't really of Chinese origin." Sherlock said looking over the cookie as if it were poisoned.

"They've become quite ubiquitous."

"Ooh, fancy word choice." Sherlock cooed.

"I know, aren't I special?" John laughed. "You ever played the game where after every fortune you say 'between the sheets'?"

"What?" Sherlock looked at him quizzically.

"For example." John said unwrapping his cookie and cracking it open. He pulled out the small strip of paper. "Here's a good one 'We can't help everyone. But everyone can help someone 'between the sheets'." Sherlock shrugged. "Come on, it's fun!" John opened what would have been Greg's cookie. "This one doesn't make any sense 'Rivers need Springs' between the sheets." John sighed. "You're right, it's lame. Sherlock grabbed the last cookie and cracked it open, and smiled maliciously.

"I don't know John, I found this one quite funny. I think this one was meant for you even." He handed it to John. John squinted at the tiny print.

_A truly great person never puts away the simplicity of a child... between the sheets._

"Not funny." John said crumpling up the fortune and flinging it across the booth. Sherlock was grinning and chuckling devilishly low. John looked at him and fought back a smile. "You paying for this?" John said looking down at the bill.

"I forgot my pocketbook. Haven't you got any money on you?" Sherlock looked at John concerned.

"I haven't a penny." John looked back at Sherlock highly concerned. "I left my wallet in my other trousers." John thought a moment. "Dine and dash?" Sherlock nodded. "K, you wait five minutes-"

"No, they'll foot me with the bill, we dart out at the same time, split directions, we'll meet up in Hanover square."

"I don't know my way around London like you do. I'll get picked off for sure." John's heart was racing.

"Then we escape together. Come on." Sherlock bit his bottom lip and raised his eyebrows. John was almost certain the ancient looking staff wouldn't give chase, he was still excited to do something so spontaneous for once. They both stood up to leave and Sherlock whispered "When I say run, run."

"Excuse me, young men. Boys!" The waitress started shouting as they made a hasty retreat for the door.

"Run!" Sherlock shouted. They both burst through the front doors and headed due West at full speed. John had never felt his heart pounding so hard in his chest, his mind raced. He looked behind him to see if anyone was following.

"SHERLOCK! There's a pissed off Asian chasing us!" John screamed. "He's got a knife!" Sherlock looked behind his shoulder.

"John, that's not a knife! It's a cleaver!" Sherlock scoffed. John really picked up the pace sprinting. "That's the spirit!" Sherlock easily sprinted past John.

_He's gonna leave me in his dust and have this mad man mercilessly hack me into bits and make me into sashimi!_

Sherlock took a sharp turn into an alleyway and John followed close behind. Sherlock jumped up and climbed on to a bin with cat like reflexes and hopped the chain link fence. John ran and grabbed hold of the bin, he struggled to pull himself up. He was nowhere near as agile as Sherlock, who was disappearing down the alleyway.

"Sherlock wait!" John screamed. John had just swung a leg over the fence when he saw the angry Asian round the corner and head full force for him. John fell over the fence a split second before the guy could grab his leg. He fell on to his back and got the wind knocked out of him. The overly buff Asian was screaming at him in what John assumed was Japanese, though it sounded more like incoherent babbling.

He felt a hand grip his arm and pull him to his feet. He looked back at Sherlock's shockingly vivid eyes. John's heart skipped a beat.

"Come on!" John was quick on his feet and raced down the narrow alley side by side with Sherlock. John heard the Asian trying to jump the fence and he started breaking out into a full out sprint. He had never run so hard. The only thing he could hear was the pulse in his ears, he was becoming blind to his surroundings, all he could see was Sherlock running next to him, constantly looking back in fear and excitement.

John and Sherlock ran the one and a half miles to 221-B in record time. They ran straight into the entryway and locked the door behind them. Both boys' backs hit the wall and they started breathing heavily.

"That was ridiculous." John panted. "That was... the most ridiculous thing... I've ever done"

_And I've had drunken sex with a school-boy._


	8. Chapter 8

"Unh, how much do I owe you?"

"Owe me what?" Sherlock asked with a furrowed brow.

"John, I'm sorry about my outburst earlier this afternoon." John read out loud "Let me make it up to you." John looked at Sherlock through half-lidded eyes. "In person." John groaned.

"Believe it was ten." Sherlock said patting his coat pockets. He grinned maliciously and pulled out his pocketbook. "Oh, there's my wallet!" John's face dropped, his mouth was agape. He stared at Sherlock in disbelief. The colour had run from John's face. Leaving him ghost white.

John snapped, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, and started shaking him.

"We could have been killed!" He shouted. Sherlock's head was bobbing like an infant with no neck support.

"You. Were. Having. Fun." Sherlock stammered.

"Fun! Fun! You think it's fun being chased down the streets of London by some crazed Asian with a meat cleaver?" John let go and Sherlock stumbled back, his eyes rolled, and he held his head in his hands.

"You were laughing it up, I thought you were chuffed to bits." Sherlock closed his eyes and willed the room to stop spinning.

"Chuffed to bits! Chuffed to bits? I could have been hacked up into _bits_! Rolled up into sushi rice and served alongside a plate of seaweed!"

"Stop being so overly dramatic, it was only a Nakiri bōchō." Sherlock said sighing.

"What?"

"The blade John, it was a Japanese vegetable cleaver." Sherlock put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "It hardly has the strength to cut through dense bone, I doubt he would have been able to 'hack you to bits'."

"Oh right, he'd just gut me like a fish."

"No he'd likely use a Deba bōchō for that job." John looked at Sherlock incredulously. "What?" Sherlock said furrowing an eyebrow. "Dear God John, what is it like in your funny little brain... it must be so boring!"

"Says the boy that can't tie his own shoes." John huffed.

"Will you ever let up on that?"

"When you stop insinuating that I'm an idiot."

"Well you are one." John looked up at Sherlock in shock. "No, no, no, don't be like that, practically everyone is."

"Great, you think I'm an idiot." John shrugged and gave Sherlock a fake grin. "Anything else you wanna make fun of? My stature? My hair? My clothes?"

"Short, unkempt, God awful." Sherlock said shortly. John blinked and rolled his eyes.

"Great! I'll be in my room if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock said looking John over.

"No reason at all." John said turning, he blushed.

"No, why would I need you? John! John!" Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked toward the ground, thinking about what John could have meant. John left and made it all the way up the stairs before Sherlock started shouting. "John! Was that a come on? Are we going to have sex?"

"Shut up Sherlock!" John shouted at the top of the stairs.

"Why would I _need_ you then?" Sherlock looked up at John with doe eyes.

"I said, no reason." Sherlock was looking up at him with such a puppy dog look that it made it difficult for John to look down at him. John turned away and ran a hand through his hair. "It's... It's just what people say. 'Be in the other room if you need me'. It's all." John shrugged. "Just... I'm there for you, if you need me."

Sherlock looked at the ground sheepishly, he had his hand clutched on to the banister, he was running his tongue over his teeth. He nodded. "Thanks John." John turned to look down at him once more.

"For what?"

"Being there... for me."

"Well... thanks for saving my arse back there." Sherlock looked up at John. "You came back for me." Sherlock shrugged.

"Didn't want the restaurant owners putting a 'John Watson' roll on their menu." John grinned slightly.

"You... wanna pop in a DVD? Play some video games... or summat." John suggested

"Still a bit wired."

"I've got just the thing." John said smirking.

An hour later, John was looking at Sherlock with awe.

"Sherlock you're amazing." Sherlock answered with a grunt. "How have you never done this before? You're an absolute natural." John shifted slightly on the sofa. "How do you do that? Almost an hour straight! I've never seen someone last so long."

"Shut up, I'm busy."

"Of course. You keep going." John smirked. "That's fantastic!" John couldn't help but compliment Sherlock's performance. There was a knock at the door. "Come on in, door's open!" John shouted.

Mike waddled in and shut the door behind him.

"Came as soon as I saw your text. How long's he been at it?"

"Almost a full hour!"

"That's outstanding!" Mike said looking at the back of Sherlock's head. "He's never done it before either?"

"First time." Mike looked impressed.

"Wow... I've done it loads of times and I've never lasted _that_ long."

"I know! He achieved six stars in like the first minute, been holding em off ever since!" John and Mike looked at Sherlock whose eyes were glued to the telly screen, his thumbs were making agile work of the controller. He was owning the video game like none other.

"You sure he should be playing violent video games? What would his mum say?"

"Oh, Grand Theft Auto's like... the calmest violent video game nowadays."

"No! No!" Sherlock shouted. He was hit by a train, gunned down by a helicopter, and died in a cataclysmic explosion all in under ten seconds.

"Oh well, all good things must come to an end." John tutted. "Shame. You were probably near a world record."

"What is the purpose of this game?" Sherlock said looking over the game's box.

"You play a bunch of missions and stuff."

"Missions? There were missions?" Sherlock said staring at the box intently. "All I saw was a bunch of prostitutes that needed mowing over." John chuckled.

"God save us all the day this kid gets his licence." Mike said putting his hands into a little prayer.

"Work at all? Make you less wired?" John asked. Sherlock rocked back and forth with his arms wrapped around his knees.

"No... If anything it made it worse." Sherlock brushed his hands through his hair and groaned, he leaned back and layed on the floor. "So bored... all the time!" Sherlock let out a heavy sigh.

"Is it ok if Molly and a few others come round?" Mike asked John.

"Uh... yeah sure... suppose."

"Good they should be round shortly." John gave Mike a look of disbelief.

"You invited them already?"

"Knew you'd say yes." Mike shrugged.

"Who all is coming over?" John let his shoulder's drop.

"Oh you know... Molly, Sally, Anderson, Dimmo, oh what's her name..." Mike said rubbing his chin. "The real young un... wouldn't let her in the club..."

"Kitty?"

"Yeah her!" Mike grinned and looked toward Sherlock. "Bout Sherlock's age, they could be quite the pair."

"Nah, she wouldn't be Sherlock's type."

"Why not? She's quite the looker... If you like little girls I mean..."

"That's the problem." John said Sherlock's head lolled over in their direction. "Sherlock's bout as straight as a rainbow." Sherlock chuckled low at Mike's expression.

"Oh... well." Mike said smacking his lips. "Guess that wouldn't make her your type now would it?" He laughed heartily. "You got a boyfriend then?"

"I'm flattered by your interest Mike, but you're far too old and bit too round for my liking." Sherlock grinned when Mike started losing his breath laughing. He started to rasp.

"You hear that? Bit too round!" He slapped his knee. "You know, some blokes like that." He pointed a finger at Sherlock. "More cushion."

"Ah sick Mike. Shut up." John said brushing away the mental picture.

"You're straight though." Sherlock said sitting up.

"Yep." Mike said grinning. "Don't care who you like, boys, girls, both, or neither. I'm not one to judge."

The door buzzed with a ring downstairs. "That'll be them." John went with Mike down the stairs to let the surprise party in. Dimmock was the first through the door, he had two six packs, one in each hand. "First floor." Mike said pointing behind them. Dimmock gave them a nod and rushed up the stairs.

Sally and Anderson were also carrying two six packs a piece, they brushed by John, and Sally looked John over. "Nice shirt." She said flirtatiously. Anderson gave her a rat faced look and glowered at John as he headed up the stairs. Molly and Kitty came in last, both were empty handed.

"What happened? Everyone was supposed to bring at least a six pack." Mike said looking over their lack of beer. John looked at Mike.

"You invited everyone over for a drunken soiree at my flat? Without telling me about it first?"

"Well, it won't be that drunken seeing as we're down twelve beers."

"It's not my fault! They saw Kitty and wouldn't sell me a drop." Molly pleaded. Mike looked over Kitty who was all whored up with no place to go. Last time she went out with them she got turned down at the club entrance and had to wait for her mum to pick her up.

"Thought you were still grounded." Mike said to Kitty.

"I am." She sounded like Moaning Myrtle from the second Harry Potter, what with her baby voice. She was a complete slag with her pigtail braids and short skirt. She dressed like a school girl 24/7 just for the kink of it. Mike didn't seem to mind that she dressed that way but John was thoroughly disgusted by the way the young lady dolled herself up to trick guys into thinking she was way older. When in fact she was a full year younger than Sherlock.

They all walked two by two up the stairs to John's impromptu party. They stepped in and everyone had already opened a beer and were claiming their seats on the sofa.

"Where's Sherlock?" John said looking around.

"Went off to his bedroom. Bit of a freak if you ask me." Sally said sipping her beer.

"Well no one asked you, now did they?" Mike said crossing his arms with indignity.

"How come Molly skimped out on the beer!" Anderson shouted.

"Kitty was lurking about, they wouldn't sell her any." Mike said in her defence. John still couldn't believe they were all in his flat, somewhat uninvited, and all intending to get drunk. "It'll still be fine! We've got..." Mike started counting his fingers. "Six six packs, there's..." Mike did a head count. "Six... Seven of us."

"How come you didn't buy one either Mike?" Anderson sneered.

"It was my idea!" He huffed. "What's thirty six seven ways?" Mike asked John who shrugged.

"No! The kid doesn't get a single drop, she's fucked it up for the rest of us." Sally sneered at Kitty.

"Sally, be kind, she didn't mean to." Molly said in Kitty's defence.

"No, no, Sally's absolutely right." Mike said.

"Michael!" Molly said in shock.

"She made it so we were short! She shouldn't get to share." Molly looked at him angrily. John had never seen Molly angry before. Her thin lips were tightly pursed, she had her fists clenched. She looked rather cute angry, like a grumpy kitten. She stomped her foot.

"Come on Kitty." She grabbed Kitty's forearm and led her out of the flat.

"Molly! I didn't mean to! Come back!" Mike shouted running after her.

"Trouble in paradise." Sally said grinning and lifting her eyebrows; looking rather suggestively at Anderson.

_Yeah, and you two are such the model couple._

John grabbed a beer and twisted the cap off with his shirt. Mike came back into the living area, looking rather distraught.

"Pass me a Becks mate, I'll be needing it."

"She finally dump your fat arse?" Sally said with a laugh.

"Can't really dump me if we weren't going out." Mike sighed. John handed him a lukewarm beer. "Thanks mate." Mike twisted off the cap, threw his head back, and chugged. Mike let out a small belch, then slapped a hand on to John's shoulder, and held it there. "Oi! But tonight's not about my and Molly's love affair."

"Or lack there of." Anderson snickered with Sally. Mike glared.

"It's bout, our man of the hour, John!" Mike clapped his hands and everyone gave a obligatory, half-hearted clap. John's face went blank.

"What? Me? What'd I do?" John said taking a drink of his beer.

"Don't you know what this is?" Mike said grasping John's shoulder tighter. "It's your coming out party!" John did a spit take and dribbled down his front.

"MY WHAT?" John shouted.

"Mike said you were gay and got us all wrangled up to publicly humiliate you." Dimmock said. It was the first real thing John had heard come from his mouth.

"I... Mike! Seriously?"

"It's a cause for celebration!" Mike shouted. "And beer!"

"Here, here." The other three chimed in.

"You ran about telling everyone I was... _gay?_ "

"Well don't say it like that. It's nothing to be ashamed of!" Mike said patting his back.

"Honest, we're just here for the beer. Don't get many excuses to drink socially nowadays." Sally said snidely.

"Thanks... for your... support... I suppose" John shrugged.

"This isn't an intervention! We're toasting, to you, and your new found self." Mike said clinking their beer bottles together. "Cheers mate." Everyone started sucking down their beers. "Why don't you invite Sherlock on out? We're down two, don't think nobody would mind him having a beer with us."

"Oi, who said we was sharing?" Anderson asked.

"I says." Mike pointed to himself with his thumb. "He's John's cousin and he lives here too." Mike straightened his collar. "Sides, he just got six stars on GTA and held the cops off for a full hour!"

"Should I be impressed?" Sally gave him a bitch look.

"I thought it was cool." Mike shrugged. "Go get him." Mike said letting go of John's shoulder. John passed his bottle to Mike. He walked away, still embarrassed that Mike planned this whole event centred around John's sexual orientation.

John lightly knocked on Sherlock's door. He opened it gently.

"Hey... Mike wants to know if you want to join us, have a beer and stuff." Sherlock was splayed out on the bed, on his back, smoking away at a cigarette. "What's that on your arm?"

"Nicotine patch." Sherlock said taking in a long drag of his cigarette.

"You... can't smoke and wear one at the same time! What if you overdose?" Sherlock shrugged. "What are you doing smoking in the flat anyhow?"

"No rules against it."

"Um, hello? Yes there is! First day. I said no smoking, no drugs, no under-aged sex-"

"No rock n roll music. I get it. No fun is to be had under your roof without your permission." Sherlock let out a sigh and took in another long drag. "Bored." Sherlock grumbled.

"Then come out and have a beer with us."

"Under-aged sex is a no no, but under-age drinking is acceptable?" Sherlock said rolling over on to his stomach. He snuffed out his cigarette on his side table.

"I had my first beer at thirteen."

"When'd you first have sex?" Sherlock looked at him interested.

"Sixteen."

"Oh that's so BORING!" Sherlock groaned. "With a girl I take it?" John nodded. Sherlock gagged.

"How about you?"

"What?"

"Well the night at the club was obviously not your first time." John pointed out.

"And if it was?"

"It wasn't." John crossed his arms, waiting for an answer.

"Fine." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Believe what you want John Watson."

"It couldn't have been." John said shaking his head and letting his arms drop. "You knew what you were doing." John sat down on the bed's edge. "Surely even you couldn't be such a natural." Sherlock's forehead dropped on to the mattress. He let out a heavy sigh.

"What's the use, you won't believe me if I told you." Sherlock mumbled into the bedsheets. He let his arms hang off the side of the bed.

"Try me." Sherlock pressed up on his hands, sat right next to John, and looked him directly in the eyes.

"That _was_ my first time." Sherlock said dead seriously. John scoffed and snorted.

"Right." John said standing up

"It was!" Sherlock shouted, his voice cracked slightly.

"Whatever." John said heading towards the door. "When you're done sulking, come out; be social for once." John gently shut the door behind him and returned to the noise in the living area.

"John! You in for pizza?" Mike was already done with his first beer, making quick work of his second. He handed John back his beer. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's being anti-social at the moment."

"Like said, bit of a freak John." Sally said raising her eyebrows as she took a sip of her beer.

"I thought we were deciding on food." Dimmock whined.

"There's a Pizza Hut, not two minutes away, by foot." John said.

Dimmock jumped to his feet. "Everyone's chipping in." He said holding his hand out and beckoning for cash.

"You owe me twenty quid for the clubs the other week." Anderson sneered.

"It's twelve and I'll pay you back next week!"

"That's what you said last week." Anderson mumbled, pulling out a fiver and cramming it into Dimmock's outreached palm.

"Sally." Dimmock beckoned his hand once more.

"You owe me fifty." She crammed the note into his hand.

"Thanks love." He said lifting his eyebrow. Dimmock spun around to Mike. "Sir, spare change? Is for the children sir." Dimmock said pouting his lower lip. "So's they don't go hungry."

Mike gave him a look and shoved a tenner in his hand. "For John and myself."

"What about the kid?" Dimmock said motioning to the direction of Sherlock's room.

"Does he eat pizza John?" Mike asked.

"Honestly... I don't know." John shrugged.

"Here's another fiver, just in case." Dimmock folded the cash nicely and counted it greedily.

"Right, laters, fools." Dimmock ran with a bit of skip towards the door.

"And Dimmo!" Mike shouted. "If I don't get that fifty quid by sundown on Friday, I'm breaking your kneecaps."

"Righto." Dimmock said bowing his invisible cap and disappearing out the door.

"Never seen him so... Cheery." John said, resuming his beer drinking.

"Oh, he's always like that." Sally said as a matter of fact-like.

"Really? He's always been real... quiet when I'm around."

"That's cause Molly's always around when you're around." Sally said getting a nasty look from Mike. "What? He totally fancies her. Only reason he hasn't put the moves on her is he thinks you'd snap him like a twig."

"How come you just don't ask her out?" John asked Mike honestly.

"Bit scared is all. Don't take rejection lightly." Mike shrugged and finished off his drink.

"You would rather wage war with Dimmo than grow a pair and ask Molly out?" Anderson asked. Mike nodded. "That's gay."

"Hey! None of that." Mike said pointing a finger at Anderson. "Don't need any of your homophobic hate speak."

"I'm most certainly not homophobic! I'm here ain't I?" Anderson looked over John with a snide look. They all sat in silence for a good ten minutes, sipping away at their beers. Looking at anything but each other. It was an awkward silence that crept under John's skin and made him real uncomfortable, not to mention his arse was starting to hurt again. He shifted from foot to foot.

"What's taking Dimmock so long, I'm starved." Sally said trying to break the ice.

"He's been gone all of ten minutes." Mike sighed.

"He's probably skipped the country, how much'd we give him? Twenty-five? He's probably living it up." Sally chuckled.

"John, whatever you do, don't loan that boy a single pound, you'll never see it again. Who's bright idea was it to put him in charge of getting us food anyhow?"

"Don't know, he just kind of volunteered for the position." Anderson shrugged.

"Great... should have ordered ahead for collection." They were all in mourning for their lost money, when Dimmock walked through the front door.

"Who died?" He asked with a slice shoved in his mouth.

"Christ! We thought you'd left the country!" Mike said grabbing the pizza boxes from Dimmock. "What, only two?" Mike scowled.

"They're fucking expensive! Had to dip into my own reserves just to get the two. Near fifteen pounds a piece."

"Oh you poor dear, you had to shell out some dough like the rest of us." Mike pouted.

"No he didn't it was precisely 23,90." They all jumped when they saw Sherlock standing in the kitchen watching them. "He likely didn't leave a tip, pocketed the rest." Dimmock frowned at Sherlock.

"Dimmock you cunt. I want my change." Mike said holding out his hand. Dimmock rolled his eyes and shoved the change into Mike's hand. "Thanks for nothing you thief. Suppose there's no real way of divvying this up then."

"Those two would get twenty-two pence a piece and you would receive sixty-six. However your current denominations wouldn't allow for such a solution. I propose you let the couple fight over the ten pence and keep the pound for yourself." Everyone gave him an odd look. "Only a suggestion." Sherlock looked John's friends over, analysing them.

"How's this math out: got two pizzas, Dimmock's gone and eaten a slice, and we've got six people to feed." Mike said grinning.

"Simple, that's two and a half slices a person or two slices a person with a remainder of three." Sherlock put his hands behind his back and paced the floor. "But in all actuality it is entirely likely the boy who skivved on paying his share will have four all together, as well as you Mike, the couple will have three a piece, John will take the minimum two, and I'll have none. That takes care of both the pizzas, no left-overs."

"That... was amazing." Mike said in awe.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked looking at Mike with doubt.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?" Mike asked.

"'Piss off'" They both chuckled. John was grinning.

"Show off." Anderson mumbled. Sally jabbed him in the ribs. "Oi!"

"Kid's got talent. Even if he is a creep." Sally admitted.

"John says you make these wild accusations, says you're highly observant." Mike said to Sherlock.

"Accusations?" Sherlock looked at John.

"Says you're nearly always spot on." Mike said grinning.

"Nearly?" Sherlock asked John.

"Almost always." John sheepishly admitted.

"Well, why don't you really show off a bit. What can you deduce about me?" Mike asked.

"You're fat." Sherlock said shortly.

"Is that all?" Mike snorted. "I think John might have been stretching the truth a bit." Mike gave John a light shove.

_Oh Lord, here he goes._

"You've gained a stone's weight in the short time I've known you. You eat for comfort. Often in bed, suggested by the mustard stain on your upper chest. You're ability to drink mass amounts of alcohol isn't weight related. You are quite frankly an alcoholic. You often show up to class still drunk. You find any excuse to drink socially." Mike looked Sherlock directly in the eye as he spoke. "You don't pay attention in class. You likely spend all of lecture doodling in your notebook going by the state of the side of your hand." Mike turned his hand and looked at the smear of ink along the side of his hand, extending down to his wrist.

Sherlock took in a deep breath and John closed his eyes praying he wouldn't scare off his only friend. "The reason for the recent weight gain, short attention span, and increased alcohol use is your hopeless obsession with a girl that you believe to be way out of your league. You refuse to pursue her in fear that she'd turn you down, so you let it eat you alive." Sherlock stepped forward and got close in Mike's face. "Am I right?" He said coldly. A small tear fell down the side of Mike's chubby cheek. He pulled his glasses off and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"Spot on." He sniffled. "I'm not feeling so good all of a sudden. I-I should head out." Mike said turning toward the door. John gave Sherlock a death glare.

"Way to go freak. You hurt Mike's feelings." Sally sneered as Mike left the flat.

"Never seen him cry before." Dimmock sighed, he grabbed another slice of pizza and shoved it into his mouth. Anderson sat in silence, looking toward the door sorrowfully.

"Sherlock a word." John gritted his teeth and pulled Sherlock by the arm through the kitchen to his room.

John slammed the door behind them.

"What the hell Sherlock?" John was steaming mad. "How could you go and make fun of him?"

"Oh it's not like I told him anything he didn't already know." Sherlock sneered.

"He was your friend!" John said.

"I don't have _friends."_ Sherlock sneered.

"Yeah." John said turning to leave. "Wonder why." John slammed the door shut behind him and put his face in his hands.

_He had to go and press his luck. Push buttons. My God. Why can't he act like he does when it's just me and him? He's far from ordinary but he can actually be fun to pal around with. Really fun._

John sighed and took his hands away from his face.

_Nobody will see Sherlock the same way I do and that's a crying shame. For everyone else._


	9. Chapter 9

"Are we still not speaking?"

"Yes." John said plainly into his textbook.

"Made eggs." Sherlock said with a fake grin. John looked over at the plate of eggs, then back to his text.

"No you didn't." He turned the page "Mrs. Hudson always puts parsley on her eggs." John was laying stretched out on his bed, his medical biology book in his lap. He was trying his hardest to ignore Sherlock.

"I helped." Sherlock pouted.

"No you didn't." John smacked his lips together. "Likely stood round, eating bacon, and chatted it up with the landlady."

"How'd you know I was eating bacon?" Sherlock looked at him intrigued.

"There's none on my plate is there?" John slammed his book shut. "And you thought I couldn't smell it from up here?" He looked at Sherlock's offering once more. "Pathetic."

"Got hungry on the walk up." Sherlock sighed.

"So you brought me a plate of eggs, that you didn't cook, and the false promises of bacon, and you expect me to forgive you?" John glared at him.

"Not forgive... just speak to me again." Sherlock's shoulders drooped. He took a seat on the edge of John's bed and looked at John sorrowfully.

"What you did to Mike was wrong." John sighed. "He's a real nice guy and you ripped him to pieces."

"He told me to show off. What was I supposed to do? Tell him about his mother's cat's diabetes?"

"Y-yes! Anything would have been better than what you did. It was mean Sherlock. You don't poke fun of someone like that." John looked away. "His mum's cat is diabetic?"

"He smells of sugar-coated ammonia. You should probably tell him to wash his coat" Sherlock grinned as John tried to hold back a laugh.

"I just can't believe you sometimes."

"In what way?"

"In every way. You're an absolute nutter." John finally let a smile cross his lips. "All right. I'm not so cross. Less you've done something else stupid and that's why you're bribing me with breakfast in bed."

"I've been good all day!"

"It's nine..."

"It was hard. Near set the kitchen on fire twice."

"Sherlock!"

" _Near."_ Sherlock corrected. "Oh... by the way... you're going to need to purchase some new dish towels."

"Wait, why?" John looked at Sherlock in concern.

"They were sitting on the burner when I ignited it."

"You said you didn't set the kitchen on fire!"

"It was only the stove top. Sides... Mrs. Hudson took care of it." Sherlock smiled. "Made eggs too!"

"And bacon..." John said sitting back, frowning.

"It was real good. Thick cut." Sherlock said rubbing his stomach. John kicked him in the hip. "Hey! If you weren't up here sulking, you could've had some too!" John groaned.

"Doesn't matter, 'you know who' is taking me out for the day."

"Awh, not again." Sherlock said with a mouth full of eggs. Sherlock swallowed. "God, won't he let up?"

"He says he's real sorry."

"Sorry he wasn't shagging you last night." Sherlock huffed. He shovelled more eggs in his mouth.

"Christ Sherlock, those were supposed to be for me." John whined.

"So was the bacon. Mrs. Hudson is a fairly decent cook." John let the back of his head strike and bounce off the headboard.

"Yeah... well... guess I'm glad to see you eating for a change."

"Thought I'd fill up for the week, I've got at least twenty different research projects planned, I'm hoping to get around to the first eleven today."

"What about school work?"

"What school work?" Sherlock looked at him while he licked the plate.

"Don't you have school projects to do?"

"Yeah... not going to." Sherlock shrugged.

"Sherlock, you'll fail!"

"Oh shut up. What are project partners for?"

"You need to work together, build valuable teamwork skills, put your heads together."

"I paid him hundred quid to do it for me. Seemed thrilled."

"I'd be thrilled too if I got a hundred pounds and didn't have to see your ugly mug on my time off." John crossed his arms.

"You don't have to look at my face, you're going out with _Lestrade_." Sherlock gagged.

"Greg's a good guy."

"You say that... all the time. Haven't seen it yet, now have I?" Sherlock dropped the empty plate on John's bed. He went to stand.

"Sherlock! Put your plate in the sink."

"Not your housekeeper." Sherlock said indignantly and left John's room in a quick sweep. John rolled out of bed, put on his shoes, and let out a heavy sigh.

_Sunday. My last day off. I just want to lay in bed and ignore the world. Sunday's a day of rest and repose, I should be getting ready for church._

John felt a slight pang in his chest. He hadn't been to church in ages. Not since his mum passed away. He hated how they paraded his parents bodies around with the wakes, memorial services, burial services, and separate funeral services. He wasn't able to set foot in a church without feeling sick to his stomach.

He wasn't sure if he should even be a Christian any more. His parents and his parents' church were adamant in the anti-gay movement. They had fliers on the church bulletin board, outreach programs for families with gay children. It wasn't just camps, they had support groups, experimental therapies. Even when John didn't think he was gay, the thought of those programs scared him. His sister made it out 'ok'. Others were changed, they appeared brain washed, they looked sick, depressed, yet compliant.

John was really confused about his sexual orientation. He really did seem attracted to men. He liked how Greg held him Friday night. Girls couldn't provide that level of comfort. He had felt so safe.

He had had another night terror the night prior. Just after the 'party' simmered down and disbanded, he headed straight for bed. He woke up moments after nodding off. He thought he saw a figure in the doorway. He had flung himself out of bed and pinned himself against the wall, screaming bloody murder. He was left a shaking mess on his bedroom floor. He didn't cry, he just shuddered in fear, the room felt freezing, he thought he saw his own breath. He had felt a terrible looming presence.

He had looked at the door in fear for quite some time before he convinced himself it was nothing and that he should get back in bed. He was still shaken up by the experience, he couldn't fall back asleep when his phone alarm went off at six, he started reading his textbooks and took some notes.

Greg had sent him several texts, even ventured to leave a voice-mail. John ignored them for as long as he could. Then he caved in and responded. Greg begged and pleaded via text and John finally gave in and agreed to coffee.

John didn't even drink coffee, he found it either too bitter or overly sweet. He'd make an exception for Greg, who obviously felt guilty about running out on him at the restaurant.

Sherlock was wrong in one aspect when he had predicted Greg's grovelling. Greg never once called Sherlock a twerp or any derogatory term for that matter. He blamed himself for flying off the handle and letting Sherlock get to him. John thought that he might not have been so forgiving if Greg had pinned this whole thing on Sherlock's behaviour. Sherlock was just trying to clown around, have some fun.

"JOHN! Your boyfriend's here!" Sherlock shouted up the stairs.

"Oh, why don't you go eat a dick you little fuck!" John shouted back.

"John!" Greg shouted up the stairs. John's heart jumped, he let out a heavy sigh, went for the door and opened it, only to see Greg looking up the stairwell and Sherlock snickering beside him.

"Not you Greg... Sherlock." John scowled at Sherlock. "You said he was here, you didn't tell me he was inside already!" Sherlock shrugged and smiled maliciously.

"He even brought you a present." Sherlock said pointing to the bag in Greg's hands. Greg walked halfway up the steps and handed it up to John.

"Just a little something to say I'm sorry." Greg said nodding.

"Clothes?" John said looking into the bag. "Um... thanks..."

"Go put em on. I'll wait down here." Greg said giving John an awkward half grin. John went back into his room. He shut the door and threw the bag on his bed. John sighed and reached into the bag. He pulled out a grey striped t-shirt. He looked it over. It had a deep V neck. John shrugged and threw it off to the side. He reached in once more and felt a weird material. He furrowed his brow and pulled it out.

_Purple trousers... Shiny... Purple vinyl trousers._

John looked them over with much concern. He looked at the size. They _were_ his size. He looked them over again.

_There's no way these are going to fit... then he'll just have to return them._

John sighed and removed his trainers and trousers, he sat down on his bed, and held the purple trousers up once more. He closed his eyes and went for it. He slid them on to his legs with some difficulty, they fit him rather snug. He stood up and shimmied them over his hips. He pulled up the zip with ease. They actually fit quite nicely. Like a glove. John looked at himself in his standing mirror.

_They're leggings! Skin tight leggings!_

John ran his hands down the front of his legs. They felt nice. He noticed his underwear's band sticking out above the trousers.

_That's why Greg has those Speedo pants. My underwear is showing! What would my mum say?_

John's face went blank.

_What would she say about me having sex with men?_

John felt uneasy. He swallowed his feelings and pulled his shirt over his head and tried on the new grey one. He gave himself an odd look in the mirror. He furrowed one brow and cocked his head to one side.

"I look really _gay."_ He said to his reflection. His reflection seemed to agree with him, he nodded to himself. He pulled his low top chucks out from under his bed and slid them on. He gave himself one last look in the mirror as he laced up his shoes.

He looked like a punk rocker. John shrugged and stood up.

"Whatevs." He said to his reflection, leaving his room. Sherlock and Greg had left the landing and John could hear Greg chatting in the living area. The front door was wide open so John slipped in unnoticed.

Sherlock looked up at John first and Greg turned around.

"John you look-"

"Ridiculous" Sherlock finished. Greg turned to Sherlock and gave him a look.

"No he doesn't. Just needs to fix up his hair. Complete the look." Greg said standing up. He reached his hand into his coat's pocket and pulled out a tiny tub of styling cream. John looked at it with apprehension. Greg opened it, withdrew a glob, and rubbed it in his hands. He started fussing with John's hair, making it stand up. John looked at Sherlock with a 'help me' look. Sherlock sat back on the sofa grinning stupidly.

"There." Greg said, he messed with it a moment longer before going to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. John looked at Sherlock and pouted his lower lip. Sherlock snickered. "K, one more thing and we'll be out of here."

"Is that a pencil?" John said grimacing at the object in Greg's hand.

"Eye liner." He said looking at John as if he was stupid. "Look up." John furrowed his brows in concern. "It'll look good, I promise." Greg assured him. Sherlock was dying trying to hold back laughter. John looked up and started asking God what he had ever done to him?

_I was such a good boy growing up. Hardly ever got into trouble. Went to church every Sunday. Why'd I ever go to that club? I'm putting on make-up for Christ's sake!_

"K, go have a look at yourself." Greg said turning John toward the direction of the loo. John walked in shame. He rounded the corner and let out a big sigh as he stepped into the bathroom. He looked up at his reflection. He could hardly recognize himself. He looked Sherlock's age. The outfit made him took super thin. His hair was pressed together in a faux-hawk. He squinted and looked at the make-up, it wasn't very subtle.

_Punk rocker... guess that beats him dressing me up like a school boy._

John turned and walked out of the loo. He tried to shove his hands into his pockets, but there weren't any front pockets, just seams that looked like pockets.

_My day is just full of false hopes. First false hopes of bacon, now false hopes of pockets._

John walked with his shoulders slumped back into the front room. He stopped in front of Greg and stared down at his feet.

"John." Greg said lifting John's chin to look up at him. "You look stunning." He leaned forward and brought their lips together gently. Greg pulled away slightly and stared into John's eyes. John stepped back and Greg brought his hand back down. John looked Greg over. He was in all black again. Black leather jacket, black shirt, black trousers. John looked down at his own shiny purple leggings.

Sherlock started giggling. John gave him a pitiful look.

"Ignore him, you look amazing." Greg said grabbing John's hand and giving it a squeeze. "Come on, let's get out of here. Escape for a while." Greg's voice was so soothing and persuasive. John allowed him to lead him by the hand out of the flat. Sherlock simply waved with a smug grin on his face and John continued to look back at him with a pleading look until they reached the landing.

They rushed down the stairs and out on to Baker Street to Greg's car parked on the street. John slid in the passenger side and let out a heavy sigh before Greg got in the car. Greg sat down and immediately placed a hand on John's knee.

"God John, you look so good." His breath shuttered as he looked John over. He seemed to wince in pain. He licked his bottom lip and turned forward. He shook his head and let out a puff of air. "Art exhibit. Friend of mine, owns the place, he's letting us in for a special preview."

_What's with him and previews?_

"You're gonna meet some mates of mine today, gonna go get some lunch together. It'll be a real nice time." He glanced over to John and immediately turned away. "Sorry... you just..." Greg shifted slightly in his seat. "Fuck, you're such a turn on." Greg palmed his crotch with one hand. He was grimacing in pain. He looked over at John and licked his bottom lip once more. "Think you could... you know? Help me out?"

John's eyes went wide, he looked side to side like there was someone else in the car he might have been talking to. He leaned back slightly, pressing his back against the door.

"Um... like how?" He asked hesitantly.

"You ever given head in a car before?" John stopped breathing. He sucked in a breath through his nose. He was like a deer in headlights. His hand was wrapped around the door handle.

"No." John said in an odd high pitched voice. He shook his head for emphasis.

"Relax! I'm not going to force you down on me." Greg chuckled. "You... ever given head, like... ever?" John shook his head once more. Greg laughed. "Yeah, best not learn in a moving vehicle then. Could end badly." Greg laughed heartily. He started up the car and John let out a deep sigh of relief.

_Thank God._

"We... still getting coffee?" John asked timidly.

"Oh shit, I forgot. You want to stop for some?"

"No... I'm fine." John shrugged. "I don't even really like coffee that much."

"You don't?" Greg made a face. "Used to drink mine all the time."

It was true, when John was younger he'd sneak sips of Greg's coffee to look cool. He never acquired a taste for it. Same with cigarettes. He just wanted to fit in with Greg's older friends desperately.

"You just haven't had any _good_ coffee. We could go to this one shop-"

"No, it's ok. Really." John interjected.

"You sure?" Greg said looking at him. John could tell Greg instantly regretted looking over. "Today is going to be real rough with you looking like that."

"Yeah." John agreed. He wasn't ready for the looks he was certain he was going to get. Especially if they were going to Soho. Hopefully everyone was staying in, taking advantage of their day off.

After a long and awkward silence they started passing several flats and shops with rainbow flags displayed in their windows. They passed by three sex shops in a row. John titled his head in confusion.

"Thought you said Soho was all arts n coffee shops now." John said as they passed a particularly raunchy shop.

"They've got most of the sex confined to Brewer Street."

"And this... art exhibit... it's on-"

"Brewer Street, yep." Greg said popping the 'p'.

"Um Greg... Is this one of those... exhibits with... you know..."

"Naughty bits?"

"Full nude striptease." John said reading a shop's sign. John smacked his lips together. "We're going to a pornographic exhibit, aren't we?" Greg looked straight forward and bit his bottom lip holding back a smile.

"Mate of mine, lettin us have a sneak peak. Thought... less people you know..."

"You're taking me out, on Sunday, the day of our Lord, to look at gay pornography?"

"Problem?" Greg smirked. John felt an odd stirring of excitement. He let out a small laugh and couldn't help but smile. He blushed. "Have you ever even seen a pornography?" John shook his head. "Ever been in a sex shop?" John shook his head once more. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

They pulled into a car-park and hopped out. They found their way on to the street and Greg stuffed his hands into his leather jacket and walked with determination, leaving John five paces behind. John felt a slight chill in the air, his leggings were no help in retaining heat. He crossed his arms and braced himself against the light wind.

Greg looked back and grinned. "You look cold." John nodded. Greg stripped off his jacket and put it around John's shoulders. John felt instantly ten degrees warmer. Greg wrapped an arm around John's shoulder and leaned in for a brief chaste kiss. "Better?"

"Much." John grinned.

"Come on, it's not much further." Greg laced his fingers in John's and they walked hand in hand down Brewer Street, past all the sex shops, oriental cuisine, and bars. John was surprised at how few looks they received. People just passed them by in the street like they were just part of the scenery. John let out a content sigh.

When his sister and Clara tried walking hand in hand on the street they were given all sorts of looks. Didn't help his sister was a fan of throwing Clara against a wall for a snog-fest in the middle of public. John made it a habit of not hanging out with them when he was younger.

They stopped in front a bright purple door with an intercom. Greg thumbed down the directory and buzzed the second one from the bottom. John looked around. They were right next to the full nude strip joint John had pointed out earlier.

_Hot Girls._

John grimaced. The door opened and a very effeminate man rushed out to greet them. John was in shock when the guy pounced on him and brought into a limp, spaghetti noodle-armed, embrace. He was given two kisses on each cheek. John felt off balance.

"Oh my God Gregory! He's adorable!" The guy shouted and put his hands to his face, holding back a squeal.

_Adorable?_

"Come on in! Come on!" He said waving his long skinny arm beckoning them. He placed a splayed hand on John's back and rushed John into the door and up the stairs. John looked back at Greg in fear and confusion. Greg just smiled. They walked up several flights of stairs before reaching the top floor. "Oh my, where's my manners?" The guy stopped abruptly. "I'm Joe." and held out a hand to John.

"I'm... John..."

"Oh I know _all_ about you." He gave John a dead fish handshake. He smiled brightly at John. They turned into the open flat and John stopped at the threshold. Greg caught up. John took a quick look around and stood frozen in the doorway. Greg grabbed John's hand and lead him in. "John dear, you look a bit pale." Joe said looking John over.

"He's never seen this many penises before is all." Greg said patting John's shoulder. John's mouth dropped. Every bit of art was penis related. There was any overwhelming amount of sculptures, paintings, photographs, and everyday objects mashed together to resemble phalli. Freud would've had a field day in this room. John blinked. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but this was definitely not it.

He looked up. There were dildos hanging from the ceiling, made to look like model aeroplanes.

"Most folks just get the giggles. I can tell you're a special sort John." Joe said handing him a champagne glass. John thought himself blessed that the champagne flutes weren't penis-shaped as well. He took a sip. "What do you think?" Joe asked excitedly. John gathered from his face that this collection was near and dear to him, he was obviously the artist of the majority if not all of the pieces on display. Sherlock's talent for deduction must have been rubbing off on him. The corner of John's mouth tugged into a grin at the thought.

"It's a creative use of cock." Joe seemed to like John's answer. John was relieved. "You're a regular penis pioneer." John said looking up to the ceiling. Joe started laughing uncontrollably.

They didn't stay long. They chatted a bit, drank some champagne. After the initial shock it wasn't that bad. They were works of art, something to be observed and analysed. John could understand why most people would just point and laugh. It was a room of a thousand dongs, would be hard for most people to not snicker at least once. However, with the artist standing right there, John couldn't in good conscious poke fun of his life's passion.

John and Greg waved goodbye to Joe and headed downstairs. Joe blew several kisses and waved with both hands. John smiled at his enthusiasm.

"What'd you really think?" Greg asked once they were safely outside.

"He's got a passion, some of the stuff was really wild." John sighed. "Wish I had an ounce of artistic talent."

"I'm... impressed John." Greg said. John looked at him confused. "Well after the films, I thought you wouldn't appreciate a room full of dicks."

"Greg, those films were God awful."

Greg chuckled, "Yeah they were." Greg sighed and looked over John. "You're amazing, you know that?" John looked confused. "You know, I was wondering." John had a sneaking suspicion where this conversation was headed.

"Was this like some kind of test?" John asked abruptly.

"No! No." Greg thought a moment. "Well maybe." Greg stroked John's cheek with his left hand. "Just weren't sure if, you know, you were mature enough."

John knew exactly where this was headed yet still asked, "Mature enough for what?"

"For a relationship... with me." Greg shrugged. "You know... if you want to." John looked down at the ground. "You want to?"

_I need time to think about it. Weigh my options. I shouldn't take this decision lightly. I don't want to lead Greg on. I'm not to sure I'm ready for a serious relationship, with a man. Especially Greg of all people._

"John?" Greg asked. John's heart skipped a beat, he felt rushed into responding.

"I suppose." John shrugged. "Give it a try."

_God, this could be a big mistake._

"Great, let's buy you some new pants, Prowler's is down the street." Greg said biting his lower lip and dragging John down the street to his first sex shop.

_Yeah sure I'll be your boyfriend Greg! Great let's get some arse-less pants!_


	10. Chapter 10

"John I have never in my whole life, met someone so picky about a pair of bleeding pants." Greg held out what felt like the ten-millionth pair of underwear.

"I really don't see the practicality of mesh pants." John sighed looking through the endless amounts of pants.

"John... come on, they're smoking hot." Greg said holding them out. John gave him a look.

"I'm not wearing a mesh jock, might as well not wear pants at all."

"That works too." Greg shrugged. John rolled his eyes. "Come on, what about a jock with a cloth front?"

"I'd freeze my arse off." John said feeling uncomfortable with Greg insisting he purchase a pair of arse-less pants. He knew Greg would do this. John was becoming snippy and insatiable.

"I could always keep it warm for you." John looked at Greg half-lidded. "All right, All right. You desperately need some low rides. How about these?" Greg held out a pair of low-ride bright red pants with white trim. John looked them over. They were low but they would cover his back and front.

"They're great."

"God, finally." Greg groaned. "Now back to the fun ones." Greg said lifting his eyebrows. John rolled his eyes once more. "Oh come on, everyone's got at least one pair."

"You mean to tell me you have a pair like this at your place?" John said holding up a leather thong.

"I have a piece of dental floss that leaves nothing to the imagination." Greg said. He grabbed the leather pants and put them back on the rack.

"But what's the purpose?"

"Quick access." Greg looked John over. "So that's what you're getting, the one pair?" John nodded. "Wanna take a look at the sex toys?"

"Seen enough flying dildos for a lifetime, thank you, but no." John said giving the red pants to Greg.

"Sometimes they're good for a laugh." Greg suggested.

_It's all fun and games until John gets a butt plug wedged up his arse._

"Don't need toys, got a boyfriend, remember?" John said patting Greg's shoulder. Greg grinned. "Now come on, I'm starved."

"Yeah, noticed you getting a bit cranky." Greg said with a sigh.

"Sherlock quote, unquote 'made eggs' for breakfast, ate my bacon on the way up the stairs, then proceeded to eat the eggs on my bed, in front of me." John rubbed his forehead which was beginning to ache.

"Mm, champagne on an empty stomach, never any good." Greg grabbed the mesh jock strap once more. "Getting these, just in case." John's groaned but he didn't have the energy to fight it.

_Maybe some food will do me some good._

They paid for the pants and by the time they made it outside John was light-headed. Greg pulled out his mobile and started texting like mad.

"Telling the boys where to meet up. What you feel like? To eat you know."

"Unh food." John groaned rolling his head back. He was highly irritable and couldn't possibly be bothered to make a decision. He understood why Sherlock was such a huge brat most of the time, never eating, in a constant state of hunger. Sure John's mind was working at full speed but he was so hungry. Why would Sherlock choose to be a whiny and grumpy prat all the time?

John couldn't possibly channel his hunger to anything productive, like Sherlock could. He could only think of food. He was losing patience fast.

"There's a diner, Old Compton Street, can you make it?"

"Unh, how far's that?"

"Five minutes."

"That... involves... effort." John was starting to sound eerily similar to Sherlock. He hoped Greg wouldn't call him immature and leave him in the middle of nowhere like last time.

"What you want me to do? Carry you?" Greg said sarcastically. John thought it over.

"Would you?" Greg snorted.

"You really want to attract that kind of attention?" Greg looked at John as if John couldn't possibly be serious. John gave Greg a hug tight around his torso. "I'm not carrying you, now walk." John growled, his head was killing him. The champagne was not being kind to his stomach and was making him dizzy. He clutched on to Greg as they walked, he could feel him becoming tense.

"John, straighten up." He pulled John's arms away and wrapped an arm around his shoulder to hold him upright. John threw his head back, his stomach was growling ferociously. He felt his upper abdomen cramping with hunger pains. "John, come on, walk normal." Greg whined. "People are starting to stare."

"I'm in bright purple trousers, people are going to stare."

"Yeah and you're acting like a child. Come on, you're embarrassing me." John stopped in his tracks. Greg tried grabbing his hand and John wrenched it from his grip. "John, I didn't mean-"

"I'm embarrassing you?" John said angrily. Greg gave him a pleading look. "You! You're the one that dressed me up like a boy-slut!" John was surprised at his own outburst. "I'm wearing make-up for Christ's sake!" John ripped off Greg's coat and threw it on the ground. "Look at me!"

"John..." Greg shook his head. "I'm sorry." Greg reached down and picked up his coat. "If you were uncomfortable with the outfit, why didn't you tell me?"

"I..." John couldn't think of a good excuse. He had essentially just put it on because Greg told him to. "Look, I'm just... really, really hungry. I can't think straight."

_Think straight. What a terrible pun._

By the time they reached the diner, had their seats, and ordered, John felt like he was going to pass out. He held his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. He could feel Greg's gaze. John sat up. Greg kept checking his phone every minute.

Sherlock was probably bored. He was bored with or without John, but at least John could attempt to alleviate his boredom and prevent any permanent property damage. Sherlock said he had twenty different experiments planned, all of which probably involved John's private property.

The lock on John's door was a fallacy; if anything it made Sherlock more inclined to break into his room. He enjoyed a challenge. John was still imagining the ultimate password to lock Sherlock out of all his devices. He changed his passwords daily now. Sometimes he was relieved Sherlock broke into his phone because he had forgotten his complex passcodes and patterned locks.

He was starting to miss Sherlock. They'd only been out a short time but John was feeling homesick. He'd just wanted to relax, read his textbooks, hang out watching crap telly. Overall the day had been a giant disappointment.

The waitress dropped his plate of food in front of him. The first thing John noticed was the lack of pickles on his hamburger. He let out a sigh and started nibbling on the end of a fry. Greg stood up and walked around to slide in next to John on the bench seat.

"Better now?" Greg said wrapping an arm around John's shoulder. John shrugged. He felt strangely empty, though he was satisfying his stomach with some greasy grub.

John looked up to see at least ten young men enter the restaurant. They were all talking rather loudly and were laughing it up. One spotted Greg and John felt his stomach dive. They swarmed like hornets towards John.

They all packed in tight, John was being jammed against the wall. Greg pulled John up and onto his lap. John felt a rush of panic jolt through him. He clutched onto the table as more guys crammed in. He had never had public anxiety before, but sitting on Greg's lap like he was one of Greg's numerous girlfriends was making John more than uncomfortable. John felt like a trapped animal, pressed against the wall, being held around the waist by Greg.

John's head started to spin, he couldn't keep track of conversations, and introductions. John's mind was going numb and was blurring faces together. John snapped to attention when he felt a hand run down his knee to his thigh.

"Love yer trousers." The guy said with a perverted smile.

"Oi hands off." Greg growled, he shift John on to one knee.

"Forgot, you don't _share_." the guy rolled his eyes and let out a puff of air.

"Where'd you get this one?" asked a bloke wearing a bow-tie and driving cap. He looked like he was pressing thirty. "Can never find me a loyal one." He said pouting looking over John.

"Twinks." someone sneered.

"Looks like a real daddy's boy." The touchy one said grinning. Greg ignored them and moved John's plate closer to him and offered up a fry. John turned it down. He was suddenly not hungry any more. The whole situation was becoming overwhelming. "If only your daddy would let you out to play sometime, oh we could have some real fun." The touchy one covertly rubbed his foot against John's ankle. John snarled. "Oh and feisty."

"Back off Seb. I mean it." Greg glowered at him.

"Oh, you two for real? My apologies." He said holding up his hands, he grinned wickedly. "Pity." Sebastian leaned back. "Could have set up a play date. Got one of my own. Imported." He laughed low and menacingly. "All the way from Dublin."

Greg snorted. "This one legal?"

"You believe for a second I'd tell a copper if he weren't?" When Sebastian smiled, John felt like spiders were crawling under his skin. "Though I never would have believed you to be a chicken hawk as well." Sebastian said lifting an eyebrow.

"John's legal." Greg said defensively

"Oh just barely I'm sure of it." Sebastian conveniently forgot Greg's hand's off rule and ran a long finger up John's shin. John pulled back and pressed his back against the wall.

"Been legal for three years." Sebastian withdrew his hand as if he'd been singed.

" _Nineteen?"_ He said with disgust. "How disappointing." Sebastian hummed. "Though, I've been known to make exceptions." He licked his bottom lip.

"Greg, I wanna go." John said feeling a wave of emotions rushing over him.

"We'll get going in a bit." Greg assured him.

"Aw, the poor thing looks like he needs to be put to bed. Have pity on the boy." Sebastian reached out to stroke John's hand. John pulled away.

"I want to go home." John said burying his face in Greg's neck. He felt a tear roll down his cheek.

"John, eat something, you'll feel better I swear." Greg said rubbing John's back.

"Greg" John started sobbing.

"God, see what you did?" Greg said to Sebastian. "Come on, straighten up John. There's no reason to be crying." He said wiping the tears off John's face. John felt even more hurt; his chest felt tight. He wrapped his arms around Greg's neck and didn't care if he was making a scene. He wanted Greg to save him, take him far away.

Greg pulled John's arms away from his neck and held him firm by the wrists.

"Enough. You're fine." Greg word's caused John's stomach to stir with nausea. His head was pounding, his eyes were burning, he sucked back tears. Greg scooted over and slid John off his lap and on to the bench. "Eat your food." John wiped his nose with his napkin and obediently started to pick at his burger.

His tears had dried but he still felt hurt. He could feel Sebastian's perverted gaze on him. John rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He wished they'd all disappear. He wished himself invisible. He wished Sherlock was there.

He could see Sherlock, throwing their insults right back in their faces. John couldn't hold a candle to Sherlock's whit. He was just a kid and already more brilliant than John could ever hope to be.

John nodded off without realizing it. He jerked awake with a gasp. Greg was looking at him concerned.

"You all right?" He said rubbing a hand down John's back. John nodded slightly. He noticed that the restaurant had thinned out a bit. The group of young men had whittled down to three.

"How... long was I out?" John asked groggy.

"A good hour." Greg said stroking John's hair. "You sure you're all right?" John leaned forward to see Sebastian still seated remarkably close on Greg's left side. Greg didn't seemed bothered by him infringing on his personal space. John was uncomfortable with Sebastian seated near him even with Greg as a barrier between them.

"Greg has been telling me _all_ about you while you had your little nap." Sebastian grinned.

_Greg's been telling everyone 'all' about me._

"He's real proud of his boy." John cringed. "You are such a good boy, aren't you John?" John started feeling that pang in his chest again.

"John, are you ready?" John looked up at Greg with an enormous amount of gratitude.

_Oh God yes._

"Leaving so soon?" Sebastian said with a fake pout. "I hardly ever get to see my copper any more."

"Don't start, I'll see you at Joe's opening, now move over." Sebastian moved slightly so Greg had to brush past him when he stood. John slid over and tried to make his escape.

"Excuse me." He said sliding past Sebastian. Sebastian grabbed John by the wrist and pulled him in close.

"You ever get tired of ol' Greg, got plenty of room. My left side gets dreadfully chilly at night." He let go of John's wrist. John looked back at Greg who was fiddling away with his mobile, ignoring the world. John stepped back in fear, a cold chill ran up his spine. He left the diner in a hurry.

"John wait!" Greg shouted catching up to John on the street. Greg had the sex shop bag clenched in his hand. John looked at in disgust. John picked up his pace. Unfortunately Greg was able to keep up without much trouble. John stopped in the middle of the side-walk.

"Who the hell was that?" John said pointing back to the diner. His hand was shaking.

"Sebastian Moran. He's an old friend. Met at uni." Greg said looking John over. "You really shouldn't let him get to you, he was only having a bit of fun." John's face went blank.

"Fun?" John asked incredulously.

"Oh he's all bark. Really John, you think I'd let him do anything to harm you?"

_Didn't exactly defend me when he was practically molesting me on your lap._

"He... he said... he kept saying I was a daddy's boy."

"John... it's just a saying."

"Yeah, well I don't like it." John grasped what it basically meant, Greg was significantly older and looked it as well. John looked like a kid in comparison. "It's just weird." John said rubbing his arm, trying to get rid of his goose-bumps. "Is he really with someone who's... you know..."

"Under-age?" Greg shrugged. "Most likely."

"Greg, what in blazes is a chicken hawk?" John frowned as Greg held back a smile.

"I don't know, bird that fancies chicken for dinner?" Greg chuckled.

"I'm serious. He was saying all this shit, half of it made no bloody sense. I just... I wanna go home." John shook his head.

"It's still early. We could go back to my place-"

"I want to go home." John insisted. "To Baker Street."

_Home._


	11. Chapter 11

"What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?" John said looking around the room; trying to take it all in.

"I don't know." John and Sherlock sat side by side in matching Italian leather armchairs. John tapped the arm of his chair nervously.

"Oh, you are in _so_ much trouble." John chortled. "The headmaster's office? Really?"

"Headmistress." Sherlock corrected. The door swung open and John hopped to his feet. The headmistress sauntered in, her hips swaying as she strolled lightly to stand beside her dark mahogany desk. She rested her hip against the edge of the desk. She rose an eyebrow and looked John over.

"Um, ma'am." John said awkwardly.

John had tried his hardest to look more mature, he had on a corded jumper and khaki trousers. He had even made an attempt to comb his unruly hair. He began to wonder if he still had eyeliner on from yesterday. He had washed his face at least five times trying to get it all off.

"Well aren't you old-fashioned?" She said teasingly. "Have a seat Dr. Watson, we have much to discuss."

"Oh... um..." John said stumbling backwards to take his seat once more. "I'm not a doctor... not yet anyway. Still a student. Medical student." John said with a small gulp. The headmistress wore a plain black dress that clung rather tightly to her curvature.

_A bit risqué for an all boy's school._

The headmistress was all woman. Thin but curvy in all the right places. John was a bit taken back by her presence. She dominated a room. Her face spoke volumes as she looked the two boys over.

"Um headmistress-" John started

"Oh dear, it's head teacher these days. Much more PC. Don't want to be offending anyone, now would we?" Her gaze turned to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes, would you tell your cousin the reason why he had to take time off his busy schedule to come down to our school today?"

"I haven't the faintest idea." Sherlock hummed and tapped his lips with his finger. He shrugged.

"I bet if you thought real hard, surely you could think of something." She said in a melodic voice. Sherlock just grinned and shrugged. "I see you're going to make this difficult, I'll take that into consideration when I'm deciding the precise terms of your punishment." She said grinning. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Sherlock shook his head. "No matter." She turned her attention to John. "This afternoon, Mr. Holmes had a row with one of our faculty members."

"Sherlock, really?" John looked at him, fully believing he did have a heated argument with a teacher, but he was trying to show a look of disbelief to convince the headmistress that he was appalled by Sherlock's behaviour. Sherlock let a small grin tug at the corner of his mouth. John folded his arms. "You had a row, with a teacher?"

"Sort of. He sat there and I shouted abuse at him." Sherlock admitted.

"What? Why?"

"He was wrong!" Sherlock laughed lightly. "I mean seriously John, creationism?"

"You yelled at a priest!" John shouted.

"Oh dear John, does that mean I've bought myself a one way ticket to hell? I'd better repent!"

"Ehem." The headmistress cleared her throat. The boys looked towards her. "There's more."

"More?" John asked quite genuinely shocked.

"It seems he's paid off one of his class-mates, Sebastian Wilkes.".

"Oh." John said, knowing full well Sherlock had paid him a fair sum to do their project for them. The rat had turned on him. Likely kept the hundred pounds. Clever boy.

"It was an English project. Hardly worth my time. I speak the language rather fluently." John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's audaciousness.

"That's not all." The headmistress looked toward Sherlock, expecting him to admit his faults. Fat chance.

"There's more?" John near whined. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "What else could you have done in one day?"

"It may surprise you to know, Mr. Watson, but your cousin hasn't made an appearance in sex education for, what has it been now? Two, three weeks Mr. Holmes?" The headmistress took in a breath. "Mr. Holmes is facing serious disciplinary actions. We requested your presence because Mr. Holmes has been suspended, starting today, and for the next two days. After which he will return with formal, written apologies for Father Benedict, as well as all the other faculty members he has insulted in his time at our school. Currently the count is twenty-four." Sherlock groaned. "Five hundred words should suffice." The headmistress tapped her fingers on her desk, she appeared to be reveling in Sherlock's torture.

"Suspension, isn't that a bit much? I mean... I'm gone during the day, Sherlock would be left to his own devices." John looked at Sherlock who was scowling at him. "It'd be more of a two day holiday for him, hardly a punishment at all really."

"Mr. Watson, I'm aware of your unique living situation."

_Wait, how aware?_

"Your elder cousin assured me he was more than willing to watch over his little brother so you wouldn't have to take any more time off. He should be returning from Mumbai later this evening." The colour had drained from John's face, he looked over to see similar panic in Sherlock's face. They gulped simultaneously.

"Yeah... ok..." John blinked.

"Is that all?" Sherlock sneered. He glared at the headmistress.

"You are dismissed. I'll see you Thursday Mr. Holmes. We'll discuss further terms of your punishment on your return." She gave him a grin. John went to stand.

"Well, Mistress..." John looked down at her name-plate "Mistress Adler, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance." John stuck out his hand.

"Irene, there's no need to be so formal and it's _head-teacher_ , remember?" She shook his hand with a firm, near bone-crushing, grip.

"Come on Sherlock." Sherlock stood up and continued to glare at Mistress Adler as he left her office. They left the school grounds and walked alongside the Thames, Sherlock occasionally glanced down into the murky water. His brain was whirling with ideas, John placed a hand against his chest. "What's your brother going to say about all this?"

"All of what?"

"Skiving class, paying off class-mates, yelling at a school teacher? Sherlock. What will he say about us?"

"Us? There is no 'us'" Sherlock started walking once more.

"Yeah well, he will be surprised to learn you weren't with that Raz fellow and were shaking up with someone claiming to be his cousin, won't he?" John began wringing his hands together. "What does your brother do again?"

"Oh, he holds a minor position in the British government."

"How... how minor?" John stammered.

"He can bring entire nations to ruins by sending a single text message." Sherlock looked dead serious. John looked at him with pleading eyes. "Oh, don't start. He's just a concept. He only has power because people believe he has power."

"So, if I don't believe in him, he'll disappear?"

"Something like that." Sherlock said removing his blazer. He leaned against the railing. His feet started leaving the ground. John grabbed his shirt tail.

"Sherlock! What in blazes are you doing?" John shouted pulling him back down to the ground. Sherlock held his blazer out over the edge and let it slide out of his fingers. The jacket floated gently down and fell like a feather in to the water. Sherlock smiled as it became water-logged and sunk to the bottom of the Thames.

"Oh dear John, It seems I have accidentally dropped my blazer in the river."

"Fell out of your grip did it?" John said smirking.

"I loved it, ever so much." Sherlock pouted.

"Bout time, good riddance." John said spitting into the water.

"Now for that God awful jumper." Sherlock said lunging for John's sweater. John giggled and batted his hands away as Sherlock pulled at the bottom of his top. They were so absorbed in their horse play they failed to notice the black car idling on the adjacent street, along with the figure that had stepped outside of said car, who was watching over them as they fought over John's jumper.

"Ah-ha!" Sherlock said pulling the article of clothing over John's head, leaving him in his under-shirt.

"Sherlock no! My mum bought that for me."

"She had dreadful taste!"

"Sherlock! Come on!" John said swiping at the jumper as Sherlock teased him with it. He held it over the river's edge.

"Sherlock, let go of the boy's sweater." Sherlock spun around to see his brother had been standing right behind him. He was looking at him rather cross.

"My dear Mycroft, this is a surprise! John, look who it is!" Sherlock looked Mycroft over grinning. "Is this a social call?" Sherlock asked tauntingly.

"Oh yes, purely social." Mycroft said mockingly.

"How are you?"

"Very well." Mycroft said with a sigh. "Well, now that the social call is over, hadn't we better get down to business?"

"I'm not coming back with you." Sherlock said with a smile. He clutched tight on to John's jumper, still holding it over the railing. John met Mycroft's gaze with the same stone-hearted expression.

"You don't seem very afraid." Mycroft said looking over John's face.

"You don't seem very frightening." He replied. Mycroft ignored John's response and simply turned his attention to Sherlock.

"Sherlock would you let go of Mr. Watson's jumper?"

"Certainly." Sherlock smirked releasing his grip. John lunged at the railings and watched as his sweater fell into the river.

"Get in the car." Mycroft said raising an eyebrow. "Both of you." John pouted as his jumper was swallowed greedily by the river Thames. He turned and debated smacking Sherlock upside the head. He looked toward Mycroft and decided against it.

_By God, the moment he figures what I've done to his baby brother... they won't be able to identify me by my dental records._

They slid into the back seat of the car, all crammed together, three to the seat. John was sandwiched in the middle. His leg started to bounce up and down on its own accord.

"Baker street" Mycroft said plainly to the driver.

"What!" Sherlock's voice cracked. Sherlock cleared his throat. "What?" he repeated in a more composed, deeper tone.

"Two-hundred, twenty-one, B, Baker Street. Is that not where you have taken up residence?" Mycroft asked Sherlock.

"I legally reside in student housing, with Raz. He'll tell you himself."

"Daniel Razrin, yes he did mention you moved some of your larger furniture into his dormitory. He also mentioned you haven't once slept in your bed since you moved in this past week."

"Over a week, near ten days. Surely you must be slipping." Sherlock jeered.

"Yes, well, you were very clever in covering your tracks. However, in the future, I wouldn't trust a young man whose mind is so bogged down with chronic marijuana use that he forgets the story you've given him." Mycroft looked at Sherlock with a judgemental gaze. "I was rather surprised, when I received a call, this past Friday, from a certain head-teacher, regarding an estranged cousin of mine, that I must say, I was completely unaware of."

Mycroft leaned forward and withdrew a folder from under the seat. He sat back, crossed his long legs, the toe of his shoe tapped John's knee. He opened the folder and began to read.

"John Watson, aged nineteen. Born and raised in Aldershot. Son of a banker and primary-school teacher. Neighbour to a Gregory Lestrade, whom he has been spotted with around the Soho district, where the older gentleman has taken up residence in a boarding house for homosexual men." John's face went white at the mention of Greg. "My sources have confirmed that you two have been out and about on several occasions this past weekend. Holding hands, kissing in public, walking into sex shops together."

"Have... you been stalking me?" John asked with an annoyed tone.

"I'm merely checking up on my _cousin_." John shifted in his seat. "It may come as a surprise but I do care about my brother's well-being. I worry about him. Constantly."

"I-I'm not some sort of paedophile... if that's what you're insinuating." John's mind tortured him with images of Sherlock sucking him off in the back of the club, him riding him hard on his twin-sized bed, Sherlock roaming about the flat, clad in only his bed sheet.

"Well, you obviously aren't his friend. Sherlock doesn't have _friends_. I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock is capable of having."

"You know... He's right here... He can hear every word you're saying."

"Yes, indeed he is entirely capable of hearing, but he isn't listening to a word we're saying." Mycroft's nose wrinkled in disgust looking at Sherlock whose eyes were gently shut, his mouth moving without audible words. "He has escaped to his 'brain attic'."

"Brain... attic?" John asked looking at Sherlock whose eyes were darting rapidly under his eyelids as if he were in REM sleep.

"A metaphor John." Mycroft sighed heavily and thumbed through John's files.

"Yes but-" John started.

"It is a play on tabula rasa." John looked at him dumbfounded. Mycroft shut his folder and turned slightly in his seat. "The Blank Slate Theory. A man is born with an empty attic which he fills with furnishings of his choice, to the point were it becomes over-cluttered and is therefore, just a useless space for storing rubbish, as most attics become given time."

"So he's retreated to some junky attic in his mind?"

"No, Sherlock has made it his life's mission to rid his brain attic of useless furnishings, stocking it only with furniture he's likely to use. He believes clearing the clutter will make his retrieval rate near instantaneous. However, it has left him spectacularly ignorant."

"Spectacularly ignorant... might save that one for later." John half smirked. "You know... when he comes downstairs in to his consciousness." Mycroft let out a small laugh. "How come he's gone into a meditative state then?"

"Likely coming up with an escape plan." Mycroft said lifting an eyebrow.

"You're wrong Mycroft." Sherlock said opening his eyes. "I face my problems head on." Sherlock glared at his brother. "Brain attic? Really Mycroft?" He scoffed. "I've upgraded to a mind _palace_."

"Yes, well you would, wouldn't you?" Mycroft said snidely. "Here we are." They pulled up to the flat and John let out a heavy sigh. "Sherlock, gather your things, I would like a word with your... _flatmate_." Sherlock left the car without a word, John opened his mouth to protest. Sherlock slammed the car door and walked into their flat. John gulped and slid into Sherlock's empty seat.

"Now, we haven't much time. Do tell me John, what is your connection with my brother?" Mycroft looked at him as if he already knew and was merely looking for John to say it out loud.

"I don't have one. I barely know him, I met him... last week."

"At a night club, in London's West End, yes I'm aware." Mycroft's pursed his lips. "Since then, you've moved in with him and now you're attending meetings with his head-teacher, discussing disciplinary actions for his behaviour." Mycroft sighed. "Do you plan to continue your association with my little brother?"

"I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be." Mycroft smirked. "John, I'm certain you're familiar with the law. At least you should be, seeing as you are rather close with an out-of-work beat cop. Surely you must know Sherlock is far too young for you."

"I'm not... Sherlock and I aren't... that's not-"

"If you were to release Sherlock, to me. I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"He... I... I can't, he makes his own decisions. I can't control him, no more than you can." John regretted mentioning Mycroft's lack of control in the matter.

"You would be provided lodgings elsewhere." Mycroft looked at him with false sympathy. "John, I'm offering you an out. You can walk away scot free. Perhaps even better off than you would be otherwise."

"No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother." John gritted his teeth.

"You know I could go to the police with this."

"But you won't."

"And what makes you say that?"

"You would have already." John said looking at the file in Mycroft's lap. "If you wanted me in prison, I would be. You're holding out."

"If Sherlock stays at Baker Street, all of his finances will be cut off." Mycroft said plainly. "I'd like to see how you two would handle that."

"Easily." John said reaching for the door.

"You believe you two are quite alike."

"Excuse me?"

"You think he's alone in the world, a lost orphan like yourself." Mycroft looked John straight in the eye. "Sherlock chooses to be isolated, he _has_ a family."

"Yeah not a very good one." John said opening the car door and sliding out.

"I'll come by, when I'm able. Make my appearances."

"I'm sure you will."

"I'll be keeping a watchful eye over you two."

"I'm sure you will." John said slamming the car door. John's mobile chimed in his pocket. The black car pulled away and John reached for his phone. He looked at the message.

**Until next time. Farewell, John Watson -MH**

John instantly felt a chill run down his spine. He ran hurriedly into the flat and up the stairs. He entered the front door to see Sherlock sitting in his favourite chair, gently plucking his violin strings.

"Well, you won't have to worry about moving so soon." John said placing his hands on his hips. He shook his head.

"Aw and I was almost all packed." Sherlock said sarcastically.

"He knows about us... and the... thing."

"Thing?"

"That _thing_ we did." John sneered.

"What thing?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Sex Sherlock! Sex!" John rubbed his face with his hands. "By God, he knows. How does he know?"

"He only knows because you told him."

"What? I've never met the guy!"

"He made a bluff and instead of calling his bluff, you folded."

"Wh-What? How! I never said anything!"

"You're an open book John, of course he knew we were sexually intimate at one point." Sherlock lifted his bow to hover over the strings. "The fool probably thought this was our 'love shack'."

"What... well then why would he allow you to stay? Why wouldn't he turn me in to the police?"

"Like I said, you wear your heart on your sleeve. It isn't difficult to deduce we are no longer in a sexual relationship. It was a rather short run." Sherlock sighed. "Oh well." He ran his bow along the strings, releasing a sultry tone from his violin.

"Relationship." John repeated.

"You did well John, far better than Raz."

"What, in bed?" Sherlock's bow jerked across the strings with a screech.

"John! How dare you." Sherlock stood up and pointed his bow at John. "I was a virgin the night we met."

"That again."

"Yes, _that again."_ Sherlock sneered. "I don't know why you can't trust me."

"You're a lying sack of shit! That's why."

"I do not-"

"You lie to everyone! Tell them what they want to hear, even though you don't give a shit about their feelings. You only tell them what they want to hear if it benefits you to say it. If not, you're brutally honest and chase off anyone who could potentially be your ally."

"How would it benefit _me_ telling you that you took my virginity?"

"Because you would like for me to do it again!"

"John, I don't think you understand how virginity works. You can't take it away multiple times."

"Oh, shut up, you know what I meant." John said turning to retreat to his room.

"Would you?" Sherlock asked meekly.

"Would I what?" John said turning. He took one look at Sherlock. "No!" John said in disgust. "What I did was a mistake, a drunken mistake. Not one I'm willing to repeat. Especially not with your big brother acting like... Big Brother... watching our every move."

"Are you really... for real with Greg?" Sherlock asked looking down at the ground, shuffling his foot.

"What do you mean?" John said crossing his arms. He leaned against the doorway. Sherlock ran his finger along his bow's hairs.

"Just... are you two... you know... boyfriends now?" John let out a sigh.

"Yes Sherlock. As of yesterday, we're official." Sherlock fell back into his seat with a heavy sigh. "Oh, don't be like that Greg's-"

"A good guy, yeah, I know." Sherlock slumped in his chair, he placed his violin off to the side, propped against the side table. "Why him?"

"An why not you?" John huffed.

"No, that's not what I was asking at all." Sherlock slid further down in his chair. "You only _just_ had sex with him."

"Sherlock, I've known him my whole life. It's not like we met just last week."

"Yes but, you didn't even know he was like all..." Sherlock held up his arm and let his hand go limp at the wrist. John chuckled.

"Says the queen of all fairies."

"Am not." Sherlock said frowning. John straightened up and unfolded his arms.

"Hey Sherlock, you know what a chicken hawk is?"

"A subset of Northern American hawks who primarily feast on free-range poultry, including but not limited to chickens?" John gave him a look. "Oh, you meant the other type."

"Yes! Christ..."

"A chicken is an under-age boy, or one that looks rather young. Chicken hawks come in and scoop em up." Sherlock mimed a bird of prey circling round and swooping down at it's prey. "Chickens are like sex objects for older men." John went slack jawed.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Does that... make... me-"

"A boy-hunter? No." Sherlock chuckled. John moved over towards Sherlock and took his seat adjacent to him.

"Well Mr. Expert. I've got another one for you. Something someone said... bout... twinks?"

"Dear God John, what's the Internet for?" Sherlock said sitting up.

"I'd type in this shit and end up with a million porno sites!"

"Last time I checked John, the Internet is for porn." Sherlock let out a sigh. "You're blonde."

"Yes... and?"

"John don't interrupt."

"Yes sorry."

"You are tanned, have firm build, and act like you haven't a single thought in your head."

"I most certainly-"

"Hush, it's my turn."

"It's always your turn." John huffed and sunk into his chair.

"You own a jockstrap but don't play sports."

"How'd you-"

"Sh, Sh. I'm speaking. You're a bit of a social outcast. Shy at times, with a slight attitude. You have a very youthful look to you, you're carded where-ever you go. Not to mention you're ejaculate is sickeningly sweet-"

"All right, that's enough." John scowled at him. "What's it mean?"

"That for Lestrade, you are quite literally the Twink next door."

"Yes but-"

"It means he's a pervert looking for a daddy/boy relationship. He dresses you up like a punk and acts as your protector. Showers you with gifts and disciplines you when you get out of line. He wants to be your father."

"That's-"

"Sick I know."

"No! Stop... putting words in my mouth. God... I was going to say, that's not Greg at all. He'd never-"

"Just wait. Watch this little relationship of yours blossom." Sherlock shook his head. "You're just a toy." John's face went blank. "To him! To him I mean. John!" John stood up and stormed out of the living area, slamming the door behind him. John sucked back his tears and headed up to his room.

"What does he know anyway?" he said to himself.

_Everything._


	12. Chapter 12

"Let's see what you've written so far." John stood behind Sherlock who was seated at the kitchen table, typing away at his laptop.

"I'm near five hundred words." Sherlock said sliding the laptop over to John. John cradled it in his arm and looked over the word document. "I'm trying to come up with the perfect ending. What's your input?"

"Sherlock... you've written 'you're wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong...' five hundred times over." John sighed. Sherlock's formal apologies were due tomorrow and he hadn't even started on the one. John had to beg for him to at least make an attempt at apologising to Father Benedict. "Sherlock you've been at it for two hours, what could you have been possibly doing in that time?"

"Oh I have it!" Sherlock snatched the laptop from John's hands. "You're wrong, wrong, wrong etcetera, etcetera. AND! I'm right. Evolution for the win. My sincerest apologies, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock shut the laptop victoriously, reached for his tea, and took a sip. "Ah." He said with a sigh. "Tea's terrible. Make me another. Emulsify the sugar granules properly this time."

"Sherlock!"

"It's like drinking through a sucrose gradient! The top is bath-water and near the bottom all the sugar has concentrated into some sort of vile ooze." Sherlock said swirling his tea.

"Sherlock, your writings! You must write five hundred words or-"

"Or what? I'll be punished? I'm already looking at a month's detention. Might as well save myself the hassle of writing out an apology when you know they'll make me apologise in person anyhow." Sherlock opened his laptop once more and opened his browser.

"Is this what you were doing for the past two hours... looking at... porn?" John looked over the photos of naked couples doing all sorts of naked gymnastics. "It's... a bunch of straight couples."

"Of course. What did you think I was gay?" Sherlock chuckled low and clicked on a video. He cranked the volume up and slid the position slider over to a specific time in the video. He put it on full screen. "Watch her face." Sherlock said holding back a giggle.

The woman on the screen was stark naked, riding some guy's dick, and had on an 'O' face. Her face suddenly contorted into a scream as she faked an orgasm. The camera zoomed in on her features, she started flirting with the cameraman and Sherlock stopped the video short.

"I have yet to find a woman that hasn't either faked her orgasm or over-exaggerated it. Not that men are completely innocent either." Sherlock clicked on another video. Slid to the precise time in the video where the man started orgasming quite loud. John had never actually seen a pornography and was actually quite fascinated by the moving pictures.

"John?" Sherlock questioned looking up at him. John was starting to feel filthy, he knew this was entirely wrong, watching strangers have sex. "You were quite deprived at my age, weren't you?" John nodded. "Want to... watch some more?" John squatted down and sat on his knees next to Sherlock's seat. He angled the computer better. Sherlock took that as a yes. "You might prefer something a little more like..." Sherlock went into his Internet history and pulled up a site. There were screen captures of hundreds of videos of naked men in all sorts of positions.

"Well, pick your poison. Rule 34."

"What's that?" John looked at him with curiosity.

"If it exists, there _is_ porn of it." Sherlock said with a grin.

"Is this what blokes do... you know... normal ones? Stay in and watch porn with their flatmates?"

"I don't know... never been a normal bloke." Sherlock said laughing.

"Me neither." John pointed to a specific video. Sherlock clicked on it. On the screen was a boy with short blonde hair and another with jet black hair that had a slight curl to it. John hoped Sherlock wouldn't make any comparisons. The two started kissing on screen.

"Boring." Sherlock said reaching for the mouse pad.

"No." John said swatting his hand. "I... like... kissing..." John said sheepishly.

"Unh it's fourteen minutes in length, we're going to be here forever, watching the two of them kiss."

"Fourteen minutes is hardly, _forever_." The two boys seemed really into each other, unlike the slutty woman who had faked an orgasm and turned round to flirt with the camera. They seemed genuine, John was quite enjoying the film. He felt a slight stir in his trousers and shifted a bit on his knees.

"Really John, it's just kissing." Sherlock huffed. The two started rutting up against each other, fully clothed. John's heart started to pound in his chest. He held his breath as they started to undress one another. Sherlock clicked on the time bar and it jumped to them having heated passionate sex.

"Sherlock!" John said shoving his flatmate.

"It's just foreplay! The one boy was going to give the other a blow job for at least five minutes still. I'm skipping to the good part."

"Have you seen this one?"

"No. But pornographies are entirely too predictable, they all follow a scheme. Kiss, fondle, blow job, optional rimming, fingers, penetrative sex, orgasm, repeat." Sherlock looked at John who was quite disappointed. "Unless you add a kink, but it only changes the scheme slightly. Insert whips and chains, a police officer, the Easter bunny, the paper boy. Sometimes all in the same film." Sherlock looked down at John. "John, you've been with girls before."

"Yes. What of it?"

"What's it like?" Sherlock said shutting his laptop.

"Wet." John laughed at his own joke.

"No, seriously." Sherlock turned in his seat to face John. "What's it like? You know... in comparison."

"Can't really compare it. I mean... I wasn't on the receiving end with a girl." John chuckled.

"Yeah but how did it compare to, you know, with me?" Sherlock looked intently at John.

"Sherlock I was real drunk, I don't remember much at all from that night."

"You were near sober when-"

"Listen, I don't want to talk about it. It's in the past, can't you forget it?"

"No."

"Right, because you refuse to purge it from your memory."

"I can't. I've tried. It's like it's seared into my every thought." Sherlock rubbed his temples. "Listen, what I said before John, I meant it. I don't have friends; I've just got one."

"Let me guess, you wish for us to be platonic?" Sherlock nodded. "But you're all confused about your feelings?"

"Exactly." Sherlock said falling to the floor and grabbing John by the shoulders. "You are amazing, you are fantastic!"

"Yes, all right, don't have to overdo it."

"I've never had a friend before." Sherlock said biting his bottom lip trying to hold back a squeal of excitement. "This is all too much." Sherlock started to panic and breath heavily. "Quick! What do mates do? Are we best friends? What does that even mean? How do we behave in public? Do friends hold hands? Do we have to go to the loo at the same time when we're out and about? Is-"

"Sherlock, calm down." John stood up. "Just behave like we normally do."

"Like?"

"Chill."

"I am... _chill._ " Sherlock said dismissively.

"No, you're bouncing off the walls with all these wild thoughts. Just be yourself. If you haven't scared me off yet, chances are-"

"That I won't? Nonsense, I have plenty of ways to make you go running for the hills. I just keep them on reserve for special occasions."

"What like birthdays?"

"And Christmas and such." Both boys started laughing. "Friends." Sherlock said grabbing John's shoulders once more.

"Now you're being creepy."

"Am I?"

"Very."

"Am I always like that?" Sherlock asked with a furrowed brow. "Hey John, is this creepy?" He pulled John in, stuck out his tongue, and licked up John's face leaving a slimy trail of saliva.

"Ah, yuck." John said rubbing his face. "Yes! That is... entirely creepy." John pushed Sherlock's face away with the palm of his hand. "Gross!"

"What, it's just like kissing?"

"No! It was all wet and slimy and gross. Ew." He shoved Sherlock.

"Do friends kiss?"

"What? No!" John thought a moment. "Sometimes."

"Can we be friends with benefits?"

"No you little perv."

"Why not?"

"You're fourteen, it's illegal."

"Not _those_ kind of benefits."

"You mean like a pension plan?" John asked puzzled.

"Yes John, I want you to invest in my retirement." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I meant like, fooling around."

"Don't we already do that?"

"In bed."

"Oh." John thought a moment. "No!"

"Not fuck around, like being all touchy and kissy." Sherlock said motioning sporadically with his arms.

"No, that's weird. Why would we do that?"

"Greg obviously doesn't and isn't going to satisfy you in that department, I thought I'd pick up the slack."

"You really shouldn't reveal your master plans before you put them into play."

"I know... you've told me several times. I just want my intentions to be clear."

"I don't know... I'll think about it."

"Really?" Sherlock asked excitedly.

"I said I'd _think_ about it. I didn't actually say yes."

"Didn't exactly say no either." Sherlock clapped his hands together and stood up off the floor. "I'm off to bed."

"Wait, why? It's only seven." John asked. He used the table's edge to hoist himself up.

"Big day tomorrow, I'm returning to school in the morning, want to be well-rested. Especially for Mistress Adler who will be punishing me severely for my indolence." Sherlock growled. "Perhaps she might even break out the cane." Sherlock shuddered. "How I do enjoy a good caning."

"Sadist."

"Masochist." Sherlock corrected.

"I hope you're joking." John said shaking his head.

"Of course. I only derive pleasure from pleasurable experiences."

"Makes sense." John grabbed Sherlock's tea cup off the kitchen table and went to the sink to wash it. He rearranged a pile of dishes to get to the faucet. "You know, you're supposed to wash these, it's your turn."

"Not it isn't. We switch off every other day."

"Yes and I've washed the dishes every day."

"It's not my fault if you happen to get around to them first."

"That's because you never do them!" John said wiping out the cup with a dish towel. He turned his attention to the remaining sink full of dishes. "And what about the floors?"

"What about them?"

"They haven't been swept, hoovered, anything. You said you would Sherlock." John whined.

"I did? When?"

"Days ago."

"Oh... I was cleaning the old attic yesterday, must have thrown that piece of information out."

"I thought you said it was a palace now." John sighed as he scrubbed a particularly stubborn spot.

"Even palaces have attics, John." Sherlock took a seat to watch John as he scoured the day old dishes.

"I thought you were off to bed."

"It's only seven John, I'm not even tired."

"But you said!" John threw the sponge in the sink with a splash. "Could you just do what you say you're going to do for once?"

"Where's the fun in that? It'd make me entirely too predictable."

"No, it'd make you dependable."

"I am dependable."

"How so?"

"You can always depend on me being undependable."

"Har har, now help me with the dishes."

"No, no John. I intend to keep my promises. I'm off to bed." Sherlock said standing.

"You little..." John threw a sponge at Sherlock's head, hitting him square on.

"Good luck doing the dishes without this!" Sherlock said picking it up. John grabbed the dish towel by the ends, spun it a few times, and walked toward Sherlock. "Don't you dare!" John snapped Sherlock's thigh with the dish towel. It made a loud crack as it made contact. "Ow! Stop!" John readied his make-shift whip.

"Why? I thought you liked a good beating?" John said snapping him once more, this time on the arse. Sherlock made a yipe. He tried to reach for the dish towel and John snapped his wrist. "Do the dishes!"

"No!" _Crack._

"Now!"

"Never!" _Crack._ "John! That hurts, stop it." John lunged. He reached out and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's neck, bringing him down into a head-lock.

"Do the bloody dishes."

"John yer, chokin, meh." Sherlock sputtered. John started running his knuckles against Sherlock's hair.

"Dishes." He taunted. Sherlock only gagged in response. "Oh come on, I'm not even sinking in the choke." Sherlock tried to elbow John in the ribs, John avoided his blows and started giving Sherlock a really good noogie.

"Ok! Ok! I give!" John let go of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock stood up and caught his breath. Sherlock quickly turned on his heels and made a break for his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. John ran after him and swung open the door, Sherlock turned and put up his arms up in defence. John tackled Sherlock onto the bed and mounted him. He pinned Sherlock's arms above his head.

"Dishes." John said, shifting his weight on to Sherlock's abdomen. John stared deeply into Sherlock's panic stricken eyes. John smirked. He leaned close, keeping a tight grip on Sherlock's wrists. His lips ghosted Sherlock's. His bottom lip barely brushed Sherlock's. Sherlock closed his eyes in anticipation. "Got ya." John said in a low sensual voice.

"What?" Sherlock squeaked. John let go of his wrists and grabbed Sherlock by his shirt collar.

"Do the fucking dishes!" He said shaking Sherlock, causing his head to bounce off the bed. Sherlock giggled uncontrollably.

"Shaken baby syndrome!" He squealed.

"Oh that's not even funny." John stopped and looked at Sherlock with a pouty face. John placed his hands on Sherlock's chest and started bouncing him like basketball on the bed. "You should never shake a baby." Sherlock chuckled. John stopped and caught his breath. Sherlock grinned and placed his hands on John's hips.

"Mm." Sherlock hummed.

"I know what you're thinking and no."

"I was thinking we shouldn't snog, but if you think we should..." Sherlock said shrugging.

"You know I have a boyfriend." John sighed.

"You know I don't care."

"I know." John said leaning down so they were chest to chest. Sherlock ran a hand through John's hair. John gave him a sad grin.

"What's wrong?"

"You're clever. You tell me."

"I'm a creep."

"And a weirdo." John sighed. He placed his head on Sherlock's chest.

"Radiohead?"

"Thought you didn't listen to current music."

"I dabble." Sherlock continued to stroke John's hair.

"Hey, if you find anything in there... don't eat it." Sherlock chuckled, his laugh vibrated through John.

"Why Greg?" John let out a heavy sigh. Sherlock started to run a hand down John's back, feeling his vertebrae, checking their alignment.

"He's all I have left." Sherlock was silent for quite some time. John started to feel his eyes get heavy.

"Do you miss them?"

"Constantly." John mumbled, half asleep.

"Is that why you have the bad dreams?"

"I don't know, you tell me, Mr. Genius."

"I'd make a terrible psychiatrist."

"That you would." John smiled. John gently rose and fell with Sherlock's every breath.

"Do you ever think about that night? At the club?" Sherlock stopped moving his hand down John's back.

"I have flashbacks, now and again." John muttered with his eyes closed.

"Good flashbacks?"

"Don't think there were any bad ones." Sherlock smiled and John felt like he was melting on top of him. "Why did you have to be so young?" John said running his hand through Sherlock's hair.

"Oi, hands off my locks." Sherlock said throwing his head back to make his hair bob.

"Yeah, because you spend so much time getting it perfect." John lifted his head off Sherlock's chest and began running both hands through Sherlock's curly hair, making it puff up. "It's quite literally a mop." John ruffled Sherlock's hair more. "Would you lose your super powers if I cut it off in your sleep?"

"Like Samson?" Sherlock looked at John with concern. "You wouldn't would you?"

"Of course I would. I'm unpredictable." John smirked. "The only thing you can predict me to do is be unpredictable."

"You are the most predictable person I know." John grabbed both sides of Sherlock's face and crushed their lips together. He pulled away slightly. "See, entirely too predictable. Wow! You are so wild and crazy John. Ooh, what's he going to do next?" John pinned Sherlock's arms over his head and struggled to keep them down with one hand.

John stuck his pinkie finger in his mouth and coated it in saliva.

"John, what are you-" John stuck his finger in Sherlock's ear, causing him to scream and jerk away. "JOHN!" He shrieked.

"Ha! Not so predictable now am I?" John laughed. Sherlock rubbed his ear against his shoulder in disgust.

"I'll get an ear infection!" Sherlock said in disgust. "That was repulsive!"

"Oh I'm soo sorry." John leaned down and blew into Sherlock's slightly damp ear. Sherlock whimpered like a dog and started trying to twist out of John's grip. John grabbed his wrists with both hands, he smiled wickedly at a thought that came to him.

"John?" Sherlock asked worriedly. John slid down and started sucking at Sherlock's neck. Sherlock shied away from the kiss. He soon realized what John was up to. John let go of Sherlock's neck with a popping sound, examined his neck, then resumed on the same spot with more vigour. "John! Don't!" Sherlock wiggled his hips. John drew back and admired his handy-work.

"Too late!" John smiled at the mark he left.

"That's not fair! Let me leave one on you!"

"Oh hell no, Greg would kill."

"Exactly! Damn it John, I'm going to look stupid going back to school tomorrow with a giant hickey on my neck."

"Wear a scarf."

"I don't wear _scarves_." Sherlock sneered.

"You'd look good in one. Make you look less like a giraffe."

"Oi!" Sherlock shouted as John locked lips with him. John ran his tongue over Sherlock's lips teasingly. Sherlock tried to lean up into the kiss. John let go of Sherlock's wrists. Sherlock's hands quickly darted down to John's arse.

He grabbed it harshly and held John firm as he bucked his hips up. Sherlock frantically ravished John's mouth with his own. He made small grunts as he rutted up against John's crotch.

John grabbed both sides of Sherlock's face and pulled himself away. Sherlock let out an animalistic growl and tried to fight against John's restraints.

"Sherlock slow down, Christ's sake, I'm not going anywhere." John said smoothing Sherlock's hair back.

"You might change your mind." John noticed Sherlock's eyes were starting to water.

"Should we stop?" John said running his thumb across Sherlock's cheek bone. Sherlock nuzzled into John's touch.

"Please, God, no." He whimpered. John gently leaned down and brought their lips together tenderly. He felt a tear hit his hand and roll down his palm.

"Sherlock. I don't think this is a good idea." John said pulling away completely.

"No, i-it's fine. I'm fine... tears of joy, I swear." Sherlock sniffled and tried to laugh.

"No, someone's going to get their feelings hurt." John looked at Sherlock concerned. "I can't give you what you want. You're still far too young."

"I just wanted to fool around is all. No emotions attached." Sherlock said wiping his eyes. "No sex, I promise."

"Like you promised to do the dishes?" John laughed. Sherlock pouted his lower lip. "That'll never work on me." John said flicking a finger over Sherlock's full bottom lip.

"Please?" Sherlock looked up at John with doe-eyes.

"No sex, ok? That includes oral." John sighed and ran his hand through Sherlock's hair once more. It was coarse, yet fluffy, like sheep's wool. Like a little lamb.

"Right, no penetration. What about touching?"

John shrugged. "Guess it's all right." Sherlock dove his hands down to John's trousers' zip and started trying to tug it open. "Sherlock!" Sherlock rubbed at John's bulge teasingly. John let out a shuddered breath. "God, I give you an inch, you try take over the world." Sherlock successfully undid John's zip and revealed his briefs.

"Red pants." Sherlock said looking them over. Sherlock smirked. "Mm." he hummed as he slid his hands into John's trousers and started to stroke John's clothed member that was rapidly gaining blood flow. John started to grind his hips into Sherlock's hands.

_This is so wrong._

"Shut up." Sherlock grunted as he removed his hands from John's trousers.

"I didn't say anyth-"

"You were thinking. It's annoying." Sherlock undid his own zip and slid his trousers down his hips. Sherlock looped his fingers through John's belt loops and guided his trousers half way down his arse.

John locked lips once more. He felt the heat rising in his lower abdomen, the dull ache in his cock, the slight friction from his cotton briefs. He started rutting with more vigour. Sherlock groped his arse, releasing the tension in his muscles. John's pelvic movements were fluid and deliberate. It was a stark contrast to Sherlock's earlier wild and frantic bucking. Sherlock let go of his control and lay perfectly still as John took over the intense snog.

John was becoming more and more aroused with every kiss. He had to break away. He knew if he continued it would lead to a sticky situation. He broke the kiss and Sherlock whimpered. Sherlock lifted his head to try resume the embrace and John held him down by his shoulders.

"I-I have to stop. I'm close." John said grimacing as Sherlock wriggled his hips. Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's wrists.

"Finish." Sherlock whined. He teased John by gyrating his hips. John's hormones were making his thoughts cloudy, compromising his judgement. He wrenched himself from Sherlock's grip and dismounted. John sat on his knees in the middle of the bed, inviting Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock rolled over and brought himself to his knees as well.

John pulled his shirt over his head and threw it on to the floor, Sherlock followed suit, unbuttoning his shirt and discarding it. Their bodies crashed together. They started their final descent with a heated passionate kiss. Sherlock broke the kiss and latched on to John's neck.

"First one done does dishes." John said in between heavy breaths. Sherlock smirked. He quickly pulled down John's pants and exposed his stiff member. John gasped as he gripped it firmly and started stroking. John reached for Sherlock's pants and Sherlock arched away from him. "Cheater!" He shouted. He fought to grab Sherlock's upper-back and drag him forward.

John slid his hands down Sherlock's back and clutched on to his hips. He brought their bodies together once more. He slid his hand down the front of Sherlock's pants and started to brush his finger tips along Sherlock's cock. Sherlock groaned and tried to pull away. John pulled him in closer and started to gently stroke from root to tip.

Sherlock was trying to jerk John off with uneven and rapid hand movements. John kept his strokes light and tantalizing. Sherlock started to whimper and furrow his brow. He bit his bottom lip and held back high pitched squeals. John grinned smugly and brought their lips together gently. Sherlock grunted into John's lips.

Sherlock suddenly jerked his hips up, John felt his cock twitch in his hand, and he knew he'd won. John withdrew his hand from Sherlock's pants. Sherlock let out a long "Oh" followed by a "Shit." He looked down at his mess in John's hand. He glared at John.

John laughed "Ha, ha." and Sherlock dove down. John tried to push Sherlock's face away from his cock. "Sherlock!" He shouted. Sherlock dug his fingers into John's hips as he wrapped his lips around John's cock and took his length completely. John tried prying him away. It would have taken the jaws of life to get him off at that point.

Sherlock flattened his tongue and slid his mouth up and down John's shaft, causing John to shudder.

"Stop." John moaned. Sherlock withdrew to just the tip. He sucked hard and flicked his tongue skilfully side to side. "No, stop." John whined. He held on to Sherlock's hair, unable to draw the strength to throw him off.

Sherlock hollowed out his cheeks and went for the kill. John clutched on to Sherlock's hair. His orgasm was rapid and came without warning. He grunted and winced as Sherlock continued to suck away, milking him for everything he was worth. John felt light headed.

His sheer ecstasy was replaced with searing rage. Sherlock let go with a pop and John shoved his head away harshly. Sherlock looked up at John with hurt and confusion.

"What did I say?" He shouted, pulling up his trousers and doing the fastener.

"But y-you" Sherlock stammered and tried to sit up.

"You promised!" John said shoving Sherlock by the shoulders. "God, you fucking prick." John jumped off the bed and retrieved his shirt.

"I was-" Sherlock tried to defend himself but John would have none of it.

"You're just a lying piece of shit. I can never trust you! With anything!" John ran his hands through his hair and tried to let out a deep breath. "Christ!" He shouted. He stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

The crushing guilt hit him as soon as he reached the kitchen. He grabbed Sherlock's tea cup from the side of the sink and threw it as hard as he could across the room. It crashed on to the floor, breaking into several large pieces. He kicked at the cabinet drawers. The silverware rattled with every blow he delivered.

His foot throbbed with pain but he continued to slam his foot repeated into the cabinet. He wanted to feel real pain instead of the emotional pain that was tearing at his heart, creating a lump in his throat. He wanted to bash his head off the counter-top, knock everything off the shelves, scream, anything. He stopped himself and fell to the floor.

He sat moaning and whimpering, his foot felt battered and bruised. It ached, but nothing could compare to how his head tortured him with thoughts and feelings he couldn't start to control.

_I have no control, over anything. Not even myself._


	13. Chapter 13

"John! Slow down." Greg chuckled as he pulled John off of him. John had practically thrown himself on Greg the moment he opened the door. It was Friday and John's conscience had been killing him for the past forty-eight hours. "Miss me much?"

"You have no idea." John said breathlessly. He reached up for another kiss.

"You haven't even heard the good news!" Greg said pulling John away once more.

"What news?" John wrapped his arms around Greg's torso and squeezed.

"It's great news!"

"What news!" John laughed.

"I got in."

"With the Met?"

"Not only that, they're waving my two-year probation, seeing as I'm a transfer."

"Greg that's great!"

"Detective Constable Lestrade, it's got a nice ring to it. Going to finally be a CID officer!" John had never seen Greg this happy before. "I thought I'd be working traffic the rest of my life."

"You're on your way to fulfilling your life long dream."

"I know!" John felt an odd feeling creep up into his consciousness. It felt like a mixture of jealousy and disappointment.

_I should be ecstatic. Why do I feel like this?_

It had to be the other night. John's foot was still sore from attacking the cabinet drawers. He was bogged down with a terrible weight that felt like it would never lift. The first time with Sherlock was a mistake, an honest mistake. John was convinced the second time was all his fault. He could have stopped any time, yet he chose to put Sherlock in that position.

What was Sherlock supposed to do? He was so young and naïve, he couldn't possibly have known what was going on in John's mind. John sent him too many mixed signals and on any given day Sherlock failed to grasp even the most direct of social cues.

John didn't feel any better when he had woken up on Thursday morning to see Sherlock fighting with a scarf trying to cover up the mark John had left high up on his neck. Sherlock had even done the dishes that morning. They didn't exchange words, though John so desperately wanted to apologise.

John and Sherlock barely spoke over the last two days. Sherlock had barricaded himself in his room after school and refused to acknowledge John's existence. Mrs. Hudson was highly concerned at the boy's behaviour. When she brought it up with John he uncharacteristically gave her the cold shoulder. He was fortunate she agreed to watching Sherlock for the weekend.

John needed some time away from the flat to get his head together. Figure out where he stood.

"What's wrong?" Greg asked as they left the flat.

"Nothing." John held back a sigh. "Where's the car?" John said looking around. Greg let out a heavy sigh.

"Sold it."

"Sold it, why?" John couldn't believe it.

"Had to make next month's rent." Greg let out another sigh and shoved his hands in his coat's pockets. "Plus petrol, maintenance, parking, it's just ridiculous to own a car in London."

"But your parents bought you that car, you loved it to the point of obsession." John looked up at Greg. "And with your wages you'll be receiving, why couldn't you-"

"John, it's gone. That's all there is to it. Now drop it." Greg shook his head. "I'm sorry John. I didn't mean to snap at you." John shrugged. "So what you wanna do tonight?" Greg tried to regain his calm.

"Celebrate?" John shrugged once more.

"Celebrate how?"

"Beer?" John suggested.

"I was thinking something a bit stronger."

"Please, no clubs." John pleaded.

"How about a bar?"

"On a Friday? In Soho? Are you mad!" John shouted. Greg laughed.

"What's wrong with pole dancers, dancing on table tops, cross-dressers, and crowds packed in so tight you don't know who's arse you're grinding into?"

"That sounds just terrible. Can't we have like a little celebration? You know... where everyone knows what we're celebrating?"

"Could text Joe, he's always up to hosting impromptu parties." Greg said pulling out his mobile. "Could invite some mates of mine, have a good time, keep it small. Under fifty."

"Under fifty? That's small?" John thought more like five.

"Do you have any friends?" Greg looked at John a moment. "Oh no, I didn't mean it like that." He laughed. "Do you have any friends you'd like to invite?"

"No... well none I'd invite. They're all straight."

_All one of them. Haven't even spoken three words to Mike sense Sherlock scared him off._

"So what?" Greg asked.

"Mm... the room of a thousand dongs? Might be a bit of a shock."

"True." Greg clicked his tongue. "Guess my friends are your friends."

"Oh my God, not Sebastian, please don't invite him." John begged as they reached the tube station and descended the stairs.

"Why not? He's my friend."

"He's a creep! He wanted me to... do stuff... with him and some Irish kid."

"He was just pulling your leg. Seb is all talk." Greg said dismissively.

_Yeah, all talk. More like all hands._

They rode the tube to the Oxford Circus, got off, and walked a good half mile to Joe's flat.

"One thing I have to say, I'm going to get a whole hell of a lot fitter taking public transit. Shit, my feet are killing already." Greg said wincing. He buzzed the intercom.

"Who all did you invite?" John asked waiting for the door.

"Same old same old. Told them to cap their invites to two per person."

"How many people are coming?"

"Somewhere in the order of... Seventy? Eighty people."

"Shit Greg, we would have been better off at a bar or at the clubs, Joe's studio is going to be packed." John was starting to panic.

"He owns two floors, his flat downstairs is giant in comparison. Don't doubt the party won't overflow to the upstairs though."

Joe swung the door open, the stairwell was flooded with people. John was instantly hit with the strong stench of alcohol which filled the entire flat. Joe was already stumbling and looked quite sloshed.

"Oh my God Johnny! You're back!" Joe said throwing himself at John. He wrapped his limp arms around John bringing him in to a weak hug. John felt like he was getting a contact buzz from the evaporated alcohol floating around in the air.

"How come I never get such a warm welcome?" Greg asked jokingly.

"Cuz you're a big ol' copper and we've got some crazy under-age boys up in here." Joe said pointing up the stairs.

"Christ, you serious? Who invited the flock of chickens?"

"Oh, like you don't know." Joe said grabbing John's hand, pulling him in. "Come on love, I'll make sure you get a drink." He said dragging John up the stairs. "Out of the way!" Joe shouted at the men mucking about on the stairs.

"Yes your majesty!" Someone shouted.

"Damn straight bitches." Joe snapped his fingers at them as they reached the landing. "Don't mind them Johnny, they're just jealous." There were several cat calls as Joe pushed several more people aside and John followed him, being held by the hand like a two-year old being lead cross the street.

"I've lost sight of Greg" John said nervously.

"He'll be fine! I'm worried bout you hun, your blood alcohol content is critically low." They reached the top storey and John came face to face, or rather face to navel with the biggest man he'd ever met. He must have been over seven feet tall with the darkest skin John had ever seen. He was so dark his skin looked blue. "Johnny! This is my boy toy, Little John."

"Hi." Little John's voice boomed. John looked toward Joe in disbelief. Joe was thinner than a twig and only an inch or two off John's height.

"What can I say, I like my men like I like my coffee!" Joe giggled. "Full of sugar and sickeningly sweet." He said wrapping his arms around little John.

"You like your coffee exploitively exported from third-world countries love." Little John said, Joe pouted and laughed at the same time.

"That's terrible but true." Joe whimpered. "Oh my God! Johnny hasn't had anything to drink, he's going to die from dehydration." Little John stepped aside and let them into the art room that had very few relatively sober people in it, chatting away, a couple was making out in the corner away from the artwork. "Little John would never harm a fly, but if anyone touches my art he'll start snapping dicks left and right." Joe laughed.

They reached a fold out table littered with hard liquor bottles.

"Oh my God! I'm a terrible bar tender. Shots?" Joe handed John a little plastic cup. "Choose whatever, you are like my favourite person." Joe giggled. John gave him a half-hearted smile. Joe took his cup away and filled it with at least four fingers and thumb worth of gin.

John took it "Cheers." He drank it down eagerly. It wasn't half bad. He'd never had gin before, it was slightly sweet and had a warming effect that radiated throughout his body. It only singed his nose hairs slightly when it evaporated in his mouth. He got through about a third. Joe went to pour himself some and Little John stopped him.

"Take it easy love, you've had quite a bit."

"I'll tell you when I've had nough!" He giggled and threw a feeble punch at Little John. "I've had nough." He sighed and let Little John drag him away from the liquor. John nervously took another large drink of his gin and swallowed. He had no idea where Greg was and he was starting to worry.

"Hey." A voice said behind him. A chill ran up John's spine. He near dropped his drink when he felt the man's presence behind him.

"H-hi." John stuttered and turned around to face Sebastian.

"Oh I am so sorry about my behaviour the other day, it was awful rude of me, putting my hands all over you. Please... let me make you a drink to apologise."

"I-I have one." John lifted up his near empty cup of gin. Sebastian took it away and tutted.

"I'll make you one, much better." He grabbed a larger red cup and started artfully mixing several liquors. John turned to see where Joe and Little John had disappeared to. He bit his bottom lip nervously and rocked back and forth on his heels. He looked back to see Sebastian had finished his concoction. He handed it over to John with an ear to ear smile on his face. "Enjoy."

John took a tentative sip. "It's good." He gave Sebastian a nod.

"Good, it better be good. I have a special touch." Sebastian stepped back away from the table. "Why don't you go find your Greg? You tell him congratulations, from me." Sebastian gave John a pat on the back and sent him towards the door.

John was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol as he stumbled a bit towards the door. He caught up with Joe and Little John. Little John was trying to hold Joe upright.

"That Moran you was talking to?" Little John asked looking down at John.

"Yeah."

"His boy was looking for him, says it's past his bedtime. Wants his daddy. You mind relaying the message?" John nodded and returned to the art room in search for Sebastian. He sipped at his drink and looked up at the flying dildos on the ceiling. They seemed more clear than normal, their colours more vibrant.

"Wow." John said looking up at them in amazement. He could feel the floor vibrating beneath him from the music downstairs. He looked down at his feet. The wood floors were waxed with a shiny gloss. The grains looked like a winding river. John started following it mindlessly. He bumped into two gentleman sitting on a sofa shaped like a pair of lips. He sat down in between them and stretched out his arms.

"Hey, I'm on a mission." John let out a content sigh.

"Oh, what type?" They both giggled at John.

"Looking for Sebastian Moran."

"Are you now?" One gave him a look over. "Don't sound too Irish to me. Imported my arse." The one chuckled to the other.

"No, no, no, no... No. No." John repeated. He withdrew his arms and started telling a story with his hands. "Little John." John raised his arms up imitating his height. "He said his little boy." John rocked his arms like he was holding an infant. "Was looking for him because it's past his bedtime." John brought his hands together and leaned them against his face and shut his eyes.

"You a messenger boy?"

"Suppose." John said leaning against the guy's shoulder. "Need a message delivered?"

"Nah, pigeon, we're good." They both giggled in unison once more.

"Your trousers are amazing." John said staring at the one guy's bright red trousers. "I have pants the same colour." John let out a sigh. "Alas, I'm wearing a stupid mesh jockstrap, not awesome red pants."

"Aw poor fing." One of the guys gave John's shoulder a light pat. John felt the touch surge through him like a tsunami. He felt hot all of a sudden.

"Woo, I'd better get up." John stood up and stumbled away. He took another sip of his drink looking for relief from the blazing heat. He started to feel sweaty but wasn't a bit moist. He ran into Sebastian who was standing in plain view. The perfect hiding spot, nobody expects someone to hide in the middle of a room. "Seb... I have a message for you."

"Yes my pigeon." John giggled as Sebastian smiled at him.

"Your imported delicacy is hunting you down. Needs some loving." John was surprised at the words coming from his mouth.

"Oh that is lovely, thank you John. Now I do believe Greg is missing you terribly. He's sent me quite a few texts." John finished off his drink and handed it to Sebastian. He gave Sebastian a salute and walked toward the exit.

He started feeling heated once more. He removed his coat and threw it to the first bloke he saw. He felt even more radiating heat as he walked down the stairs, rubbing up against everyone on the staircase. He made it down the stairs and felt so overheated he ripped off his shirt and let it drop down the stairwell. He let out a deep breath and walked into the downstairs flat that was packed with bodies.

The scene was slightly hazy but the music was crystal clear. For once in John's life he felt like dancing. He was about to jump into a group of people when someone grabbed his arm.

"Whoa whoa!" The guy shouted. "Remember me? Greg's mate?" John shook his head. "Bow-tie?" John rolled his head. "Is that a yes? No?" John nodded, the guy laughed. He pulled out a permanent marker. "You'll thank me for this later, you look... God your pupils are blown. You all right?"

"I feel amazing, everything is so amazing." John said rubbing his hands on the guy's silk shirt.

The guy marked John with the marker on his chest. John moaned at the feeling of the wet Sharpie rolling across his chest. "All right, go get em tiger." The guy without a bow-tie said sending John off into the crowd.

John looked down at his chest, unable to see what was written. He felt heated once more and started panting. He went up to a guy with a drink.

"I'm hot." He said to the guy.

"Yeah you are, taken too. Shame."

"How'd you know?" John asked him. John started rubbing himself, his fingers ghosted his chest where the guy had written on him. "Can I have your drink?" The guy shrugged and gave it to John. John poured it over himself and shook his head. He handed the empty glass back to the guy who looked at him with his mouth wide open.

"Greg!" John shouted as he searched the crowd of men who were dancing against one another, raising the heat in the room. John felt incredible as he made his way through the crowd. It was as if all of his stress and anxiety melted away and nothing mattered except finding Greg. He couldn't forget his mission.

John noticed a familiar face in the sea of people. He locked on and near knocked over several people trying to get to him.

"Dimmock!" John shouted. Dimmock cowered when he saw John barrelling towards him. John threw him into a bear hug and rocked back and forth. "You're gay?" He said dancing against him to the music. Dimmock had his arms clenched to his chest.

"Uhhh." Was all Dimmock could say.

"Come on, it's a party, dance." John said spinning him around. Dimmock reluctantly moved to the music, looking around awkwardly. "You here with someone?" Dimmock nodded.

"Well... I was... he left..."

"Oh Michael!" John threw himself at Dimmock once more, grabbing him tight. "I'm so sorry. What a dick!"

"I-It's all right."

"No it's not. That fucking bastard. You must be devastated." John felt true sorrow for his sort-of almost friend.

"Come on John, you should let go." Dimmock started to try pry John away. "John! Please!" He shouted. John let go. "Stay right here, don't move an inch." Dimmock said putting his hands out. He left into the crowd. John felt the strong urge to run, climb a wall, do anything but stand still. He leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling. Life was so beautiful and wonderful, how could such a ceiling exist?

John felt the odd temptation to feel his own arse. He ran his hands down the back of his pants and groped himself. His eyes went wide. He needed a body pressed against his own, feeling him. He wanted to feel that person while he felt him. He felt bursts of pleasure even without contact. Then he saw Greg appear out of the crowd like a dream.

John was told not to move an inch. He felt like his feet were cemented to the ground. He sighed with relief as Greg made his way over to him.

"Dimmo says I can't move."

"You can move now." Greg laughed.

"God, fucking finally." John stood on tip-toe and dragged Greg down for a kiss. The height difference was annoying so John jumped up and wrapped his legs around Greg who luckily caught him and held him up.

"Mm, John, wait." Greg said between pecks. John wrapped his arms behind Greg's neck and kissed him without any reservations. The sensation was intense. John felt euphoric being held off the ground tonguing the inside of Greg's mouth. John pulled away briefly to catch his breath. "What's gotten into you today?" Greg asked trying to let John down to the ground, John constricted around Greg's waist and held himself in midair even without Greg's help.

Greg tried to pry away John's legs. "Mm, fuck me." John moaned into Greg's lips.

"Unh." Greg responded. John crushed their lips together as tight as they would go and held them there until it ached, then let go. "John where is your shirt?"

"Fuck if I know! Let's get out of here."

"I... but where's half your clothes."

"Oh come on Greg, fuck clothes." John said going in for an open mouth wet kiss, that made Greg moan with desire.

"Ok, we'll leave, but you have to get down." John obediently let go and hit the floor with a thud. He grabbed Greg's hand and tried to run through to the exit. Greg stumbled trying to keep up.

The stairway had cleared quite a bit and they were able to run down easily. They hit the cool night's air outside and John let out a loud moan.

"Chase me!" He yelled and started running down the streets.

"John! Come back!" Greg chased him down Brewer Street and rounded the corner onto Wardour street, then took a sharp left onto Old Compton street where the street was full of people right outside the Admiral Duncan pub who whistled at John as he ran down the street with Greg hot on his trail.

John started shouting into the night. He passed another bar which had patrons spilling outside. They cheered like it was the best thing they'd seen all night. A half-naked boy running down the street being chased by an older man.

When John passed G-A-Y he finally stopped when he near ran into a large group of drag-queens.

"Hi!" He said excitedly.

"Boy you trippin?" One laughed.

"I'm highly coordinated, fuck you very much." John saw Greg catching up and smiled. He took off into a sprint once more and rounded the corner. The cross-dressers laughed uncontrollably and pointed Greg in the right direction, wishing him luck.

John kept on running until the streets became more and more filthy, the buildings became more run-down, and he knew he was close to Greg's place. He jumped the gate and ran for the front door, he went up five flights of stairs, and said hi to everyone on his way up.

He stopped in front of Greg's door and waited. It wasn't long before he heard Greg's heavy footsteps storm up the stairs.

"John! What the hell is the matter with you?" Greg shouted, he was out of breath, his forehead was drenched with sweat. John lunged forward and started frisking Greg for his keys. He withdrew the set of keys from his jacket and tried to fiddle with the door. Greg panted heavily and looked at John like he was a maniac. John twisted the door handle and shoved it open.

John jumped behind Greg and started shoving him into his room. Greg stumbled forward.

"God, that run killed my buzz." He whined. John kept pushing Greg towards the bed. "John, shut the door for Christ's sake." John ignored him and continued pushing. Greg dug his heels into the floor and turned around. Now he was pushing John backwards to go shut the door.

John had a terrible urge to mouth something. Greg kept trying to push John away so he could shut the door. John threw every bit of weight into Greg to stop him in his tracks. It was like David and Goliath. Only in this version David was trying to get into Goliath's pants.

John fell to his knees and started mouthing at Greg's crotch.

"Fuck John, just hold off, two seconds." Greg begged. He was able to reach out and barely touch the door with his finger tips. Greg tried shuffling over as John started to undo his zip. "Come on John, someone will see." Greg whined.

"Give em a show." John said wasting no time pulling down Greg's trousers and underpants, revealing his cock. Greg furrowed his brow and reached out to grab the door's edge. He tried to swing it shut but it refused to close all the way.

John felt like his head was floating, almost like he had become detached from his body. He'd never done anything like this before. Though he'd done pretty much everything else with a man. He was so intoxicated and his apprehensions were so far withdrawn he had no reservations about sucking off his childhood friend with the door half-open.

John was quick to dive right in. The taste wasn't pleasant, like essence o' Greg. The initial sweaty metallic taste let up after John had mulled the cock over his tongue for a bit. It had a tang to it, like drinking cologne. After a while it just tasted of skin, but Greg was quite sweaty so he reeked of pheromones emanating from his moist loins.

John's senses had never been so heightened. He was repelled and utterly attracted to Greg's penis, it was so delightfully confusing. When John closed his eyes he could see a crazy light show. It was like a rock concert of noises. Greg's whining pleas and incoherent babbling, the loud sucking noises, the muffled grunts. It was like a Black Sabbath concert. Minus the head-less bats.

John felt like his mouth was flooded with excess saliva, making it hard to breath. He swallowed several times with difficulty and continued to suck away.

"John stop." Greg tried pulling John's head away. John brought his hand up to Greg's cock and started stroking it along with his sucking. "John." Greg moaned. "You can stop." Greg's knees were trembling. John felt Greg's cock start to become softer, he picked up the pace. Greg stumbled backwards, his back pressed to the wall. John had him pinned and wasn't about to let up.

Greg was gritting his teeth, wincing. John's forehead was beginning to sweat, he felt an unquenchable thirst for cock. His hand started to tremble. Greg was hard once more. His back was arched and he was moaning loudly. Greg clutched on to John's shoulder's tight. John removed his hand from Greg's cock and took his length completely.

He felt the strongest urge to breath the moment he went all the way down. He gagged and pulled away immediately and panted desperately for air. He looked up at Greg who obviously wasn't sure what he wanted. John looked back down to Greg's cock which obviously knew what it wanted.

John took Greg's length in his mouth once more and Greg whimpered. He started running his hands through John's hair. Saying a small prayer. John was getting dizzy from lack of air. Greg's hips jerked forward and he felt a sharp stab in the back of his throat. Followed by a thick mucous-like feeling, which caused him to choke.

John withdrew and struggled to regain his breath. He swallowed several times, took in a deep breath, and dove at Greg's cock once more. Greg screamed. It was unlike any other sound John had heard before. He tried to pay no attention as he started to suck away once more.

Greg was clawing at John's hair trying to get a grip and pull John away. He pressed his hands against John's forehead.

"God! John stop!" He yelled. "It's too much." John felt like he was going to combust with Greg's hot hands on his forehead. "John, you're burning up, stop!" Greg took in a deep breath. "Fuck, John, I'm sorry." Greg grabbed the back of John's neck. He twisted to one side, dislodging his cock from John's mouth, and threw John face first into the ground.

John was caught off guard. He saw star bursts. He was on his hands and knees, rocking back and forth holding his head in his hands.

John felt a sharp stabbing pain radiate all over his body as Greg started pouring cold water over his back. Greg went to the closet and pulled out a towel. He drenched it in water from the sink. He threw the dripping wet towel on to John who collapsed under its weight.

He lay helplessly on the floor, his mouth pulsating, his body shivering. Greg kept trying to force a cup of water into his hands.

"Drink." He begged. John kept shoving the cup away though his mouth was drier than a desert. "You need to drink." Greg said feeling John's forehead. "Did anyone at the party give you anything? Tablets? Pills?" John shook his head. His eyes were fixed on a spot across the room, his jaw went slack. Greg started rubbing the wet towel on John's back. "Fuck." Was all he could say. "You sure you didn't take anything?"

John closed his eyes, trying to drown out the sound of Greg's nagging. He started walking up a staircase with pearl white railings, with velvet carpet lining each step. He looked back down, he was pretty high up, it made him quite dizzy. Other people were ascending the stairs, he picked up his pace.

He reached the top and looked back down to see the stairs had vanished. John shrugged and walked up to a golden gate that arched into the sky and towered at least twenty stories. He looked down once more to see his feet were covered in some sort of fog. He looked up and standing at the gate was his mother, dressed in a white robe, holding his family's old cat, Bunbun.

She was stroking the cat from head to tail and smiling at John. John titled his head to one side.

_Hm, that's odd, Bunbun died when I was six._

"Where am I?" He asked puzzled.

"Oh Johnny, dear." She tutted. "You're dead."

John jerked awake with a gasp. He clawed at the floor, unable to breath. He couldn't figure out where he was. He started hyper-ventilating. He was wet. Had he drowned? Had he wet himself?

Greg threw a blanket on to John's back and wrapped him up tight. He helped John up. Greg seemed to glow in the darkness. John tried to pull away from Greg's hands.

"I don't want to die." John cried. Greg hushed him and lead him to the bed. John lay down and started gently sobbing. All of his fears and anxiety had come back full force. He was reminded of all the terrible things he had done in his life. Including how he had hurt Sherlock so deeply the other night.

Then Greg wrapped his arms around him. John rolled over and pressed his face against Greg's chest, uncertain he could ever fall asleep again, only to melt away into a blissful slumber moments later. His body pulsed with warmth, instead of intense heat.

His dreams were delirious and caused his head to ache. He'd constantly wake up babbling about something and then would drift back to sleep in Greg's arms. His head really started pounding and he felt nauseous at dawn. He jerked awake, pulled himself away from Greg, and started vomiting profusely into the popcorn tin.

He let out a heavy sigh of relief. He felt like he had thrown up everything he had eaten for the past ten years. It was oddly satisfying. His knees shook as he returned to the bed. Greg began stroking his hair gently. John felt so relaxed, like their was an aura about him.

John slept like a rock for another six hours. He awoke violently to find Greg wasn't next to him. He began to panic and search the sheets. To John's relief, Greg walked through the door along with Joe who had his jacket and t-shirt in hand.

"Hey sunshine, how you feeling?" Joe asked taking a seat on the edge of the bed. John's stomach felt sour, his mouth was bone dry, and his head ached tremendously. "Found your coat!" Joe said placing it near John. Greg stood in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"John, what happened last night?" Greg asked.

John swallowed to try wet his mouth to speak. "I guess, I just had too much to drink."

"Did you happen to set your drink down?" Greg sounded rather annoyed. Joe reached out a stroked John's hand and gave him an empathetic look.

"Greg's just worried Johnny. Worried you might have been given something at the party." Joe said rubbing his thumb along John's knuckles.

"Like what?" John shrugged. Greg huffed a sigh and unfolded his arms. "I had the cup of gin and then Sebastian-"

"Oh God." Joe said coming to some realization. "I should have known, John... Little John... He said something about you and Seb having a chat." Joe turned to Greg. "I told you! Johnny would never..." Joe said hugging John. Joe pulled away and rubbed John's shoulder. "Greg you should be ashamed." Joe said snapping back to scowl at Greg.

"I'm going to kill Seb." Greg growled and pulled out his mobile.

"I told him you weren't the type to be experimenting. That jerk. A sweet boy like you." Joe pouted. "Poor fing." Joe stood up and left the room, leaving John terribly confused.

"Course he's not answering his phone." Greg was steaming with anger. "You see him, tell him he's a dead man." Joe put up both his hands.

"Hey, this is between you two." Joe said defensively.

"The fuck it is, he brought fucking ecstasy to your party. Half the bloody place was rolling last night." Greg hissed through his teeth. "You know the shit I could get into being at a party like that?"

"He was probably just trying to liven things up." Joe crossed his arms.

"I can't believe you! That sick fuck, I'll kill him." Greg clutched on to his mobile with such a force it made little cracking sounds.

"I'm not starting a war." Joe said leaving for the staircase.

"War's already started. Time to choose a side."

"Switzerland, bitch." Joe said flipping him off and headed down the stairs without another word.

"See if I ever fucking help you again!" Greg shouted after him. He stormed into the room and slammed the door behind him. "Drugs." He hissed.

Greg turned abruptly and slammed his fist into the door, leaving a dent. He shook his hand and rubbed his knuckles. John sat up in bed looking confused.

He shook his head. "Fuck." Greg turned to John. "You all right?"

"Bit thirsty." Which was the understatement of the century. John felt like sand was going to start pouring out of his mouth. Greg filled the cup from last night with fresh water. He walked over to the bedside and handed it to John.

John took a sip. It tasted of sulphur and hard minerals. John's tongue stung as it re-hydrated. As he drank he felt sick to his stomach. Greg sighed.

"It's fine." John said handing the empty glass back. "Just no more clubs or parties. Ever."

"Come on, let's get you home."

"Home? I thought I was staying the weekend?" Greg picked up John's shirt and handed it to him.

"You should probably recover in your own bed."

"I don't understand..." John felt a pang in his chest.

"I just... I need to time to think." Greg said running his hand through his hair and letting out a puff of air. "Not sure what to think about last night."

"B-but it's not my fault. Sebastian he-"

"John, you can't put all the blame on Sebastian. You were just as much a part-"

"I didn't ask him to spike my drink!" John shouted shoving Greg's hand away.

"John, put on your shirt."

"This is bull shit! You can't be serious! He fucking drugged me and you're mad... at me? Some boyfriend you are." John scowled.

"What you did last night... w-was inexcusable." Greg stuttered. "Now get your shit and get out." Greg threw John's coat at him. John clenched his teeth and scooped up his belongings. He left in a hurry before Greg could see him cry.

It was a silent cry, one where tears just rolled down his cheeks. Over the past two weeks he'd never cried so much in his life. He was beginning to wonder if he was broken.

He ran down the five flights of stairs. Ignoring everyone staring at his bare chest. When he reached the entryway he placed his jacket between his legs and pulled his shirt over his head. He noticed a mirror hanging up above the mantel in the sitting area.

John pulled his coat out from between his knees and walked over to the mirror. He lifted his shirt to read his chest.

_Greg's Toy._

John pulled his shirt down once more and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He sucked back his tears. He slowly took a seat in one of the armchairs. He felt a terrible pain, like ice water was running through his veins. His head ached.

_Can't go home, Sherlock hates me. Mike won't speak to me. Greg doesn't want to care for me because I'm a sick fuck._

John's chest felt tight. He was hurting all over. He felt so utterly alone. He desperately needed someone. John reached into his coat's pocket for his mobile. He looked through his short list of contacts and pressed his sister's number. He held the phone to his ear.

_Please answer._

It went straight to voice-mail. John pressed end and looked at his mobile.

_You were never there for me, why start now?_

John thumbed through his contacts once more. He went to his old messages, ran through them, then stopped.

_Mycroft._

John thought a moment. His thumb hovered over the message. He had his number right there.

_How could he possibly help? Couldn't exactly make matters worse._

John sighed. He started to type. He looked the text over several times, then pressed send.

**I have been reconsidering your offer, lunch? -JW**


	14. Chapter 14

**Baker Street. Come at once, if convenient. –SH**

"I hope I'm not distracting you"

John looked up from his mobile at Mycroft. "Oh, sorry. No. Not distracting me at all. It was just-"

"My brother."

"Um yeah." John said. He popped a crisp into his mouth. He didn't feel hungry but he knew he had to eat something. He had sucked down three glasses of water and was on edge waiting for his fourth. He found it quite disturbing that he hadn't had the urge to urinate all day. He wasn't sure if this physiological response was normal or if he was going to keel-over at any moment.

John's mobile pinged.

**If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH**

John smirked and shoved his phone into his coat pocket.

"How long exactly did you 'reconsider' moving away from Baker Street?" Mycroft asked. "One, two minutes?"

"About as long as it took to compose the text and press send." John admitted.

"You must be an incredibly lonely person. Your only confidant is a man who should be arranging your execution."

"I wouldn't hold yourself to such a high standard, you knew I was some drugged out, sex crazed, boy-lover, and yet you did nothing to stop me." John sighed. Mycroft let out a laugh disguised as a cough.

"The more time I've had to reflect without the little nuisance present, I've come to the conclusion that you could be the making of my brother… or you could make him worse than ever."

"That encompasses just about everything." John could see Mycroft fight back a smile. "Are you allergic to emotions? Or does your religion prevent you from having a good time?"

"There is a time and place for pleasantries and merriment, but a meeting with your brother's rapist, is not one of them." Mycroft couldn't hold back a slight grin and a small chuckle.

"I'm really sorry. I have no idea why I even contacted you in the first place."

"As I mentioned earlier, you are incredibly lonely." Mycroft gently shook his head. "And you have a knack for making terrible life choices." John laughed.

"Yeah, it's like I thought I could come to you for relationship advice. I must be an idiot."

"Must be." Mycroft let the sentence hang in mid-air. He took in a deep breath. "You are being misled."

"By whom?"

"Everyone. Or at least everyone you choose to associate yourself with." Mycroft looked away. "All you have experienced, as a homosexual male, is all of the things your parents warned you about. Indiscriminate sex, wild parties, drugs…" Mycroft's nose wrinkled in disgust. "It's unrealistic and overly sexualized. It will only lead to your downfall."

"Why should you care?" John looked at him with concern.

"I don't. I'm merely stating fact. You are on a path of destruction." Mycroft folded his hands together and placed them on the table. "Stop me if I'm wrong, but last night you had an accidental encounter with… recreational MDMA by the looks of it, and this morning you were thrown out on to the street because of it."

"I still can't figure out why he would-"

"Loss of control." Mycroft said plainly. "Your 'boyfriend' seeks to dominate every aspect of your life because he has no control over his own."

"You don't even know Greg!" John shouted.

"I know the type."

"Yeah, but Greg's different."

"Leave him John." Mycroft pulled out his mobile and started to type away.

"How dare you." John said indignantly. "I don't know what you're trying to get at, but-"

"You are familiar with a Sebastian Moran?" John's blood went cold at the mention of his name. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach. "It would be in your best interest to _leave._ "

"How do you-"

"It just so happens your boyfriend's colleague is of high interest to me." Mycroft slid his mobile back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

"Like… you want to… go out with him or summat?"

"He is on the terrorist watch-list John." Mycroft looked at John as if he were an idiot. John's eyes went wide.

"Terrorist?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes well, apart from trafficking under-age boys across country borders and having an active hand in the transport and trade of black tar heroin from the middle-east, he is a highly skilled demolitions expert." John's jaw dropped. "Shocked?"

"He… I… what?" John stammered.

"It is a lot to take in I suppose." Mycroft said dismissively. "I must admit I was rather pleased to see your text."

"I" John squeaked in response.

"John, do close your mouth, you'll let flies in." John snapped his mouth shut.

"A terrorist?"

"Potential terrorist. We've been keeping him under the highest level of surveillance. It just so happens you have come to associate yourself with the man so I've been able to keep a watchful eye over you as well. A two for one, if you will." Mycroft smirked. "You didn't ask why I was pleased to see your text."

John gave Mycroft a blank look.

"Well since you asked. It seems Moran has made an exception for you John." John looked at Mycroft with deep concern. "From what we can gather, he is quite infatuated with you. Though you don't match the standard description of his… shall I say partners?" Mycroft tilted his head to one side. "I guess you could consider yourself _special._ "

John started shaking his head. "No. I won't."

"You haven't even heard my proposition."

"I don't need to. I'm not… seducing Sebastian for Queen and country." John's started to shake, he was becoming panicked.

"You aren't going to be _seducing_ him." Mycroft sneered. "You will behave as your normal apprehensive self and gather valuable evidence that will lead to his incarceration."

"You say it as if I don't have a choice!" John cried out.

"You have a choice John. Either you aid in the imprisonment of Sebastian Moran or be imprisoned yourself."

"You can't-"

"And you believe Sherlock is an expert in manipulation." Mycroft tutted. "From whom do you believe he acquired his black-mailing talent?"

"This is why you were holding out on telling the police." John shook his head. "And here I thought you cared about your brother."

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, John."

"Don't give me that line of bull-shit. You stay up all hours of the night worrying about Sherlock, you can't tell me you don't care."

"I don't care." Mycroft said defiantly.

"Ha… ha… a fucking comedian." John clenched his teeth.

"Of course Sherlock musn't know about our little arrangement. It would likely compromise the entire operation."

"Good fucking luck. He can deduce your family's income from a dog's droppings, what makes you believe you can fool him for ten seconds?"

"Sherlock loves a good mystery. I thought a red herring would be appropriate. Get him side tracked while we carry on with business." Mycroft looked at John intently. "You should be flattered. I do believe you are entirely capable of pulling this off."

"What deceiving Sherlock?" Mycroft grinned. John actually found the compliment rather flattering; a fallacy, but flattering none-the-less.

"I've taken the liberty of devising a guise, to explain your absences, withholding of information, and general secrecy."

"Which is?"

"Oh right." Mycroft said as if he had forgotten he had said anything. "You're having an affair."

"With?"

"Me."

"No." John furrowed his brow.

"What would be more disturbing to my brother than having his… _love interest_ , suddenly becoming close with his brother?" John thought and thought of something more disturbing. Nothing in the world would be more disturbing. Even John was quite disturbed by the thought.

"Is this just a really… really fucked up way of asking me out?"

"This is a matter of national importance, grow up." Mycroft sighed.

"Why me?"

"You know why. I don't like to repeat myself." Mycroft grabbed his umbrella off the back of his chair and went to stand. "Come." Mycroft threw money on the table and left in a hurry. John stood and pulled his coat on. He shook his head and looked up to the ceiling.

"Why me?" He asked God. John turned and left the restaurant with a sense of defeat.

He reached the street and looked around. There was no sign of Mycroft. John furrowed his brow in concern. He walked down the street a ways, searching.

He was suddenly pulled into an alleyway. Mycroft twisted John's shirt into his hands and pressed him against the wall.

"I'm going to kiss you." John struggled against Mycroft's grip.

"What?" He squeaked right before Mycroft leaned in and took him in for a surprisingly gentle kiss. John's face blushed. Mycroft's lips were incredibly soft and smooth. His smell was intoxicating. Mycroft slowly pressed himself against John, who had stopped struggling and leaned into the kiss.

John's mind had gone numb. When he was released, his lips remained slightly puckered.

"That should be enough." Mycroft said brushing off the front of his suit.

"Erm… may I ask… the purpose?" John coughed.

"You need only the faintest traces of my cologne to rouse the sniffer dog."

"You couldn't have just… you know… sprayed me?"

"An amateur's move. No, it had to be as authentic as possible."

"How… authentic are we… you know… gonna get?" John gulped.

"Never you mind. I have no interest in pursuing you physically." John let out a small sigh. His mobile pinged once more.

**Could be dangerous –SH**

_You have no idea how right you are._

"First of all, you are to break it off with Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft said pulling out a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket.

"I… what?" John asked in disbelief.

"This isn't an 'open' relationship John." Mycroft looked at John disapprovingly.

"This isn't even a 'real' relationship."

"And your association with the temporary detective constable was?" Mycroft cocked one eyebrow. "Gregory Lestrade is the only obstacle remaining between you and Moran. He will pursue you fully once you are no longer an item."

"I can't just dump him!" John shouted. Mycroft slid the packet back into his pocket.

"No. Perhaps you can't." John let out a sigh of relief. "But we can."

"Huh?" John looked absolutely bewildered.

"I suppose I can provide some sort of… support." Mycroft seemed disgusted at the notion of support.

"What if I don't want to?" John whined.

"Oh trust me, you do." Mycroft started to walk away, swinging his umbrella. "Come along John, there's much to do." John jogged lightly to catch up. "We'll make a quick stop off at Baker Street. Let Sherlock get a whiff of you. Get you out of those… street clothes." Mycroft sneered.

"All I own is street clothes." Mycroft looked over at John with a grimace on his face.

"That will never do. Surely you must have something." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "And not those God awful purple leggings."

"How'd-"

"Surveillance… Honestly John, do keep up." Mycroft said rather annoyed by John's inconsistent bouts of stupidity. They rounded the corner and John was suddenly familiar with his surroundings.

"I didn't realize we were so close to the flat."

"No I didn't suppose you would." Mycroft pursed his lips. "You really should become more familiar with your surroundings. It would only be to your benefit." John nodded.

"What's with the umbrella?"

"Never leave home without it." Mycroft said looking at his umbrella with a smirk.

"Why?" John looked at the umbrella with curiosity. "Does it have a concealed sword or summat?"

"No." Mycroft smiled. "That's the beauty of it. It's simply an umbrella." John shrugged.

_Insanity must run in the family._


	15. Chapter 15

"John! You're back!" Sherlock shouted with an over-exaggerated amount of enthusiasm. Sherlock looked John over grinning. He moved closer and his grin faded momentarily. John could almost read his mind.

_He's seen my withdraw symptoms, assumed Greg has cancelled our weekend plans. He stepped closer, caught a whiff of the cologne. By God I'm turning into a Holmes._

Sherlock had recovered quickly. "Have a seat John. I could use your help with an experiment."

"Actually…"

"Yes?" Sherlock asked with false surprise.

"I… have plans. With Greg." John staggered his speech purposefully. "I came round to… yeah… I'm just going to head up stairs… get changed…" He avoided Sherlock's gaze.

He prayed that his plan to fool Sherlock had worked. Lying was always so easy for Sherlock but for John it was terrible. That's why the lie within a lie was a perfect plan. John found it natural to be pretending to be deceptive because he was actually being deceptive. Deception inception?

John thought a moment and turned to face Sherlock. "Hey… Sherlock… do you have a shirt that I could possibly borrow?"

"What kind of shirt?" Sherlock was clearly becoming concerned. Perhaps even slightly disturbed. Good.

"Just a nice shirt, going somewhere nice, need a nice shirt is all." John gave him a small grin. Sherlock nodded and went to his bedroom. John headed to the bathroom for a quick shower.

He turned the water faucet to the hottest it would go, stripped completely, and stepped under the near scalding water. He had committed himself to a short shower but it felt so good to be under the hot water. Steam rose out of the shower and enveloped the room in a thin cloud.

There was a knock at the door. John shut off the water, stepped out, wrapped a towel around his lower half, and opened the door to find Sherlock had left a red button down shirt on the ground in front of the door.

It wasn't a particularly nice shirt. Didn't seem like one Sherlock would own, John hadn't seen Sherlock in a shirt with breast pockets before. No wonder he gave it to John so willingly. John picked it up. It was made of dense cotton.

_Where did Sherlock get this shirt?_

John gathered his dirty laundry and carried it along with the red shirt up to his bedroom. John threw the dirty clothes on the floor and the red shirt on to the middle of his bed. He went through his drawers for fresh pants.

_No more jock straps._

John grinned.

_Might keep the red pants though._

John put on his pants, a pair of his darkest jeans, and a clean white undershirt. He reached across the bed for the red shirt. He undid the buttons, slid his arms in, and shrugged it over his shoulders. He started buttoning it up and turned to have a look at himself in his mirror.

_I look ten years older._

He looked himself over. He finished buttoning up the shirt and adjusted his collar. The look suited him. No make-up, no tight trousers, no arse-less pants. He adjusted the sleeves which were a touch long but when he buttoned the cuffs they didn't slide over his wrists so that was a plus.

He fussed with his hair in the mirror and debated tucking in his shirt or leaving it out. He stopped.

_What am I doing? I'm about to break it off with my boyfriend and I'm getting all prettied up for… Mycroft?_

John threw his hands down in defeat and walked out of his bedroom and down the stairs to the landing where Sherlock was waiting.

"You look… better." Sherlock shrugged. He sounded let down. John felt a pang of remorse.

"Thanks for the shirt."

"Keep it." Sherlock sighed and turned to enter the sitting room. He stopped and tapped his finger on the door jam. "Will you be back later this evening?"

"Yeah, of course. We can do that experiment thing you were talking about… Less it's some kind of electro-shock therapy." John forced a laugh.

"It doesn't matter. Go. Have fun." Sherlock sulked his way to the sofa and threw himself down. He drew his dressing gown close and curled up into a ball. John looked at Sherlock for a moment; he turned and walked away before he could change his mind.

John walked out on to Baker Street to see a black car waiting for him. He hopped in beside Mycroft and shut the door.

"Here." Mycroft said handing John a black jacket. John looked it over. He ran his thumb along the corduroy collar.

John ran his fingers along the leather patches on the shoulders. "It's a shooting jacket."

"I thought it was about time you retired that old beat up leather jacket."

"Thanks." John gave Mycroft a small grin. John held the coat on his lap, fiddling with the collar the entire ride. The driver pulled up to a pub and John looked at it confused. "How come we're not going to the boarding house?"

Mycroft took in a deep breath. "Why would we go there, when Gregory Lestrade is currently inside this establishment?"

"You bring stalker to a whole new level." John said looking the pub over. "Is he with anyone?"

"No, I made certain he was utterly alone." Mycroft slid over to John's side and John scooted away uncomfortably. "Oh for God's sake. Open your door, I'm on the side with oncoming traffic."

"Oh, sorry." John said reaching for the door handle and fumbling with it. Mycroft rolled his eyes and reached out and slightly brushed against John to open the door. John pressed the door open and stepped out.

Mycroft took a moment to smoke while John tried on his coat. It was amazingly comfortable and had a good weight to it. John felt a whole new confidence in his jacket. He placed his hands in his pockets and waited for Mycroft to finish smoking.

"So… how do we go about this?" John asked, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"We go in, you break up with him, is it really that difficult?" Mycroft sneered.

"Well yeah… I'd like to be prepared you know… maybe have some script."

"Why don't you tell him how you really feel about him manipulating you and belittling you in public?"

"Like you're doing." John mumbled.

"I am trying to renew your sense of masculinity." John looked at him confused. "He's stripped you of your identity and has made you lesser of a person _."_   John looked even more confused; he tilted his head to one side. "I'm boosting your confidence!" Mycroft near shouted.

"Why… do you care about how he's treated me?"

"I don't… Oh good God. Don't look at me like that. I am only trying to make this as smooth of a transition as possible." Mycroft was blushing.

"From him to you?"

"Would you stop fixating on our fictional relationship?" Mycroft flicked his cigarette butt on to the sidewalk. "Shall we?" Mycroft walked with purpose through the front door of the pub and John followed a few paces behind.

When they entered the dimly lit pub John immediately recognized Greg sitting at the bar. He felt his stomach churn.

"I can't go through with this." John whispered to Mycroft.

"It is either this or prison."

"Ar." John growled. He walked tentatively towards Greg who was nursing a beer.

"Hey." John said.

"Hey." Greg said staring straight ahead.

"I've been thinking…" John said shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. "We… I don't…" John couldn't form the words.

"We what?" Greg looked at him.

"I don't want to be your boyfriend anymore." John's stomach felt like it dropped twenty feet. He felt a cold chill run through-out his spine.

"All right." Greg sighed, taking another sip of his beer. "Nice jacket. Haversack." Greg nodded towards Mycroft who was hanging out near the exit, checking his pocket watch. "The poof buy it for you?"

John clenched his fist. "I don't appreciate you calling him names."

"Oh really?" Greg turned to John. John felt his blood boil. He knew he had to do something, something stupid, and dramatic.

"You're just a big old… stupid… gaycist!" John said grabbing Greg's beer. He threw the lager right into Greg's face.

Greg wiped his face and John went to turn. Greg grabbed his sleeve. John wrenched his arm away.

"Don't touch me." John stormed off dramatically. "Come on Mycroft, we're done here." Mycroft shook his head and followed John outside.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Mycroft asked.

"It was either that or a punch to the face and I'm pretty sure he could kick my arse."

"We have about a minute to get into the car and drive away before his temper catches up to him." Mycroft and John made a hasty retreat to the car and sped off in time to see Greg exit the pub.

John's phone started ringing. He pulled it out and silenced it.

"Now what?" John asked feeling a bit of excitement. It hadn't yet sunk in what he'd just done.

"We're done for the day. We'll pick up where we left off tomorrow. Make Moran aware of your relationship status, set up a meeting, and see where it goes from there."

"Oh… I guess I was expecting… more…" John shrugged.

"You pine for the battlefield. Don't worry, your time will come soon enough."

"What do you think Greg's going to do?"

"He's going to go to Moran and inform him that you two are no longer. He will put every bit of blame on Moran."

"What if he mentions you? Greg asked if you bought me this coat."

"Moran was only concerned you were in a relationship with Lestrade. He needs to keep him on his side." John's guilt caught up with him suddenly.

_I can't believe I just walked in there and let him have it. He doesn't know how dangerous his friend really is. Why must everything move so fast?_

Mycroft pulled a phone out of his suit pocket and handed it to John.

"What's this?" John looked at the i-phone with intrigue.

"Your new phone. I'm afraid I'll have to confiscate the old one." Mycroft held out his hand for John's mobile.

"I have to transfer my contacts."

"No need, I've already done it for you. Now, your phone, s'il vous plait."

"Bien sur." John sighed and pulled out his mobile. He placed it in Mycroft's hand. Mycroft quickly unlocked the phone and started searching for something.

"When Gregory Lestrade drops by later this evening, apologise for your behavior, but make it clear that you are not willing to continue your relationship."

"And how do I do that?" John started to wring his hands.

"Surely you can think of something." Mycroft looked at John with a judgmental gaze. They pulled up outside the flat and John let out a deep breath. He went to leave the car and Mycroft caught him by his sleeve. "Forgetting something?"

John looked at him stumped. He had his coat, his new mobile, what could he be forgetting? John looked at Mycroft and tried to search his face for an answer.

Mycroft leaned forward and gave John a chaste kiss on the lips. He pulled away and John's heart gave a small flutter. "Why?" John asked.

"John, don't question my methods. Now go." John slid out of the car and walked up to the front door. He lingered a moment as the car drove off.

John turned from the door and walked down the alleyway. He turned over a milk-crate and took a seat. He pulled out his new phone and started fiddling with the settings.

He looked through his contacts. Nearly everyone was there, minus Greg. He heard a rustling in the bins. A small black and white cat popped out. He was licking his chops and walking towards John.

"Hey dumb-arse." He said to the cat. "Come back for some abuse? Or is Mrs. Hudson's rubbish that good?" The cat started mewing loudly and John could hear him purring from a distance.

The cat rubbed himself against John's legs and weaved between them.

"You and I are two of a kind." John said scratching the cat's back. The cat arched into John's touch. "We just keep coming back and coming back. It makes no sense." The cat stopped and started licking its chest, unhinging its jaw to reach. John laughed.

"Oh shit." He remembered the writing on his chest. "Greg's toy. Can you believe it?" John sighed. "I can't believe I'm talking to a cat." That cat mewed in response. "Guess I have nobody else to talk to." John let out another sigh. "I've barred myself from all human contact." The cat jumped up on to John's lap and started kneading at his leg.

John placed a hand on the cat's side and the cat fell into John, pressing itself against his chest.

"You're very loyal, very quickly." John picked the cat up under its arms and made it face him. "You know, caring isn't an advantage." The cat gave John a look. _Shut up and pet me._ John smiled, placed the cat back on his lap, and continued gently petting the cat. "You know… well I suppose you don't because you're a bloody cat, but I had a cat when I was little. He had a stupid name, _Bunbun._ Only liked my mum. He clawed at me whenever I came near him. The arse-hole."

John scratched under the cat's chin and the cat melted into John's touch. "You're a good cat, mentally retarded… but good." John stroked along the cat's body. "Bit on the thin side." John sighed and placed the cat on the ground. John stood up and the cat looked up at him. "You want to come inside? Maybe share the rent… flatmate's a bit of a madman. I've got sardines." John shrugged. "Well the offer stands, if you want to take me up on it." John turned and walked away. He turned the corner and went to the front door and found it unlocked.

He pushed the door open and he saw a blur of fur dart in. John smirked.

_He's not as dumb as he looks._

John chased the cat up the stairs and herded him into the sitting room. The cat ran into the kitchen and jumped up on the table where Sherlock was diligently working on his laptop. The cat lay down on Sherlock's keyboard and rolled over on to its back. Sherlock looked down at the offensive fur-ball with confusion.

Sherlock flicked at the cat's paws, the cat batted at Sherlock's finger. Sherlock started poking it in the belly. John smiled radiantly at the two. Sherlock had his brow furrowed as if he was analyzing the cat's behavior.

"Is this a peace offering?" Sherlock asked in a snobbish tone.

"Perhaps." John said stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Will you allow me to run all sorts of inhumane experiments on the horrid beast?" Sherlock said lifting the cat up off his laptop.

"Of course not!" John looked at Sherlock trying to judge if he was serious.

"Unh. Is it a pet then?" Sherlock groaned.

"Yeah! I thought we could do with a little furry creature around the flat, cheer things up."

"I want a blood hound." Sherlock frowned pushing the cat over. The cat fell on to his back once more, begging for Sherlock to pet him.

"You would have to walk the dog, feed him, clean up after him. Cats just… do… cat things…" Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "Hey, I'll even let you name him."

" _Felis catus_." Sherlock said plainly. John snorted. "What, you have a better name?"

"I was thinking something like dumb-arse." John smiled.

"The perfect name for such a noble creature." Sherlock said as dumb-arse started aggressively cleaning its bottom. "All right, dumb-arse it is. I suppose I get to name the next one." Sherlock said shutting his laptop. "So tell me, how is Greg?" Sherlock said with an accusatory tone.

"I was wondering when you were going to ask that." John sighed. He took a seat on the sofa. "We broke it off."

"We?" Sherlock said with a slight sneer. Sherlock stood up and turned to open a cabinet.

"Well… more like me." John looked over at Sherlock who was pulling out a tin of tuna. Sherlock opened the top drawer and withdrew the tin opener. "I got fed up with the way he's been treating me… so I threw a pint in his face."

"Just the beer?" Sherlock asked.

"I should've thrown the glass at his head too."

"It's shame you didn't." Sherlock opened the tin and placed it in front of dumb-arse. The cat took a look at it, sniffed it for a bit, and then jumped off the table. Sherlock look outraged. "It's tuna for God's sake." Sherlock shouted. "What bloody cat doesn't eat tuna?" The cat ran off into Sherlock's open bedroom. "Dumb-arse." Sherlock shook his head.

"Want to go to the store? Get some cat food… litter pan… you know, cat things?"

Sherlock let out an aggravated sigh. "Do I have to?"

"I asked if you _want_ to."

"Yes but then you get all… naggy… when you come home." Sherlock started eating the tuna straight from the tin. "Then you have to fill me in on every excruciating detail." Sherlock moaned. "I can't reach the top shelf, the machine wouldn't take my card, I ran into one of Mrs. Hudson's friends and she said bla bla bla was shagging so and so from down the lane and bla bla bla." Sherlock threw the tin in the sink and moaned. "It is all so _boring_. What's the point? Doing the shopping." he scoffed.

"I don't know… maybe getting food, you know that thing humans eat."

"If only I could feed in an auto-trophic manner, I wouldn't have to worry about bloody Tesco."

"You'd likely shrivel up and die, you wouldn't step outside."

"I'd be a chemoautotroph of course." Sherlock said indignantly. "God! I'll go! Just give me time."

"Time to what?" Sherlock was already fully dressed and even had his shoes on.

"I'm not ready yet. Give me forty-five minutes. John let out a sigh and looked for the remote to turn on the telly. Dumb-arse came running out of Sherlock's room with something in his mouth. The cat came up to John and placed it at his feet.

"Ah yuck, dumb-arse caught a mouse." John looked at the half-eaten mouse carcass at his feet. The cat swung his tail as if to say 'you gonna eat that?' "I didn't even know the flat had mice." John looked at the dead mouse in disgust. The cat ran away, looking rather pleased with himself.

"I suppose we don't need cat food after all." Sherlock smirked. "And what's the use of cat litter?"

"So he doesn't piss on the floor?"

"Why not just let him outside?"

"Well… because… he might get hurt out there. Street cats have a lower life expectancy."

"He has survived thus far." Sherlock sighed.

"Yeah well so have you. What if I just turned you out on to the street?"

"I'd take up prostitution, start dealing in narcotics, work my way up in the world, become a successful drug lord in a few years time. Retire in Sussex. Perhaps own a small farm, live the life of a hermit, might even own some bees." Sherlock grinned as if this was a pleasant option for him. "What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"Oh." John was uncertain what he should say next. "Going out, with some mates of mine, see a film or something. It isn't exactly set in stone." John hoped Sherlock wouldn't want to tag along.

They both heard the door bell ring and grimaced at the same time.

"Single ring." John sighed.

"Maximum pressure just under the half-second."

"Lestrade." They said in unison.

"I really don't want to get that." John moaned.

"Want me to?" Sherlock asked with a slight grin.

"And tell him what?"

"Something wickedly delightful I suppose."

"He did get that position at Scotland Yard, just so you know."

"Well there goes that plan." Sherlock walked to the door.

"What are you going to tell him then?" John asked concerned.

"Piss off?" Sherlock suggested.

"Just… don't get punched in the face." John sighed. "Nobody wants to get with a prostitute with a busted up face."

"I'll keep that in mind." Sherlock said as he ran down the stairs. John heard the door open and Sherlock saying something. There were heavy footsteps up the stairs and John knew Sherlock had failed.

"We need to talk." Greg said shortly.

"I don't… think there's anything left to say…"

"No, I demand an explanation." Greg went to grab John's forearm. "In private."

"No. I want to talk here." John pulled away.

"I'm not discussing this in front of your cousin."

"He lives here too."

"It's none of his business." Greg had his fists clenched.

"I… don't…" Greg grabbed John's hand and led him up to his bedroom. Sherlock ran up the stairs.

"Sherlock, this is none of your concern." Greg hissed.

"Yes it is! Let go of him!" Sherlock shouted and lunged at Greg. Greg pushed Sherlock away, causing him to stumble on the stairs.

"I'm just looking to have a private conversation with your cousin." Greg said shoving John into his room. He stepped in and locked the door behind them. John heard Sherlock thunder down the stairs and into the living area.

"Greg… I…" John backed away from Greg.

"I'd like to know what the hell is going on." Greg immediately started raising his voice. "Who the fuck was that at the pub?"

"Y-you…"

"You think you can just fuck around like that?" Greg looked at John in disbelief. "What have I told you about shaking up with strange blokes?"

"But you said it was all right… that we split." John was cowering. He reached a wall and pressed his back against it.

"Of course it's not all right." Greg shook his head. "Just, you bring some creep in with you and start talking about breaking up. Then you go and make a scene like that. I just didn't know what to think." He took a step towards John. "I'm not going to hurt you." Greg's lip snarled. "Just can't see why you'd run off with a fairy like that."

"H-he's not some fairy." John tried to straighten himself up.

"Course he is." Greg looked John over. "Showered you with gifts and now you're his flame?"

"It's not like that. He was just helping me."

"With what?" Greg sneered.

"With you!"

"Oh, fat lot of help he was."

"I thought we could use some space." John looked at the floor.

"John, I've known you your entire life. You don't want to get with this guy, he's not your type." Greg sighed. "I know I haven't been the best boyfriend, throwing you out this morning. I know it wasn't your fault." Greg moved closer and John felt a lump in his throat form. "You gotta give me a chance. I'm just as new to this as you are." Greg slid John's hand into his.

"I don't know… I need time." Greg grabbed John by the chin and pressed their lips together. His embrace was slower than usual but still rough. His face was like a scrub-brush against John's. Yet there was a certain amount of comfort and security in Greg's kiss.

There was knock at the door and Greg jerked away suddenly.

"Jesus Christ! Sherlock, piss off!" Greg shouted. There was another knock at the door, slightly louder. "Hold on a moment." Greg let go of John and went for the door. "Listen you little… oh… It's you."

Mycroft stood in the doorway, his umbrella in hand.

"It would be in your best interest to leave, at once." Mycroft said tapping his umbrella's tip on the floor impatiently.

"Tough luck sweetheart, me and John are back together."

"John and I." Mycroft corrected.

"We ain't-"

"Aren't"

"All right, can you shut it for two seconds?"

"I can. However I don't believe I will." Mycroft smirked. "John's under my care now, your services are no longer required. Now if you will step aside. Come along John." John made a motion for the door.

"You serious?" Greg asked John.

"John doesn't need a father-figure, he is quite fully grown I assure you. It is time to let him go out into the world and experience it for himself." Mycroft reached out a hand for John. John took it and held it tight. He wasn't sure why he trusted Mycroft, he assumed it was because he was related to Sherlock.

"I've known John since the day he was born, I know exactly what he needs, and you're not it." Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at Greg.

"Yes and I've known him all of week and I can tell you more about him than you could possibly imagine." Mycroft clutched John's hand and started to lead him out of the room. Greg put a hand around John's upper arm.

"How about you let the boy decide?" Greg sneered at Mycroft.

"He's not a _boy."_ Mycroft glared. "If you're looking for a custody hearing you can take it up with the magistrate." Mycroft pulled John out of the room and they started walking down the stairs together.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Greg asked at the top of the stairs.

"Your worst nightmare Gregory Lestrade. Now I suggest you leave before I call the police. It would be such a shame if word of your domestic dispute leaked out to Scotland Yard. They don't take kindly to those who abuse their power."

"We weren't having a domestic!" Greg shouted.

"A drug test and the state of John's forehead would suggest otherwise." John pressed his fingers against his forehead. He felt a small lump that had formed from when he was thrown face first into the ground last night. "I also have several witnesses who would testify that you hosted a party with an obscene amount of minors consuming alcohol and illegal drugs."

"I didn't host that party it was-"

"Joseph Wiggins. I'm aware."

"Who are you?" Greg asked looking down at him incredulously.

"I've told you once before and I would rather not waste my time repeating myself." Mycroft and John walked into the sitting room and slammed the door shut behind them. Mycroft let go of John's hand and turned to the kitchen. "Tea?" He asked John.

"Yeah… yeah sure." John looked at Sherlock who was sitting in his chair holding his violin to his chin, deep in thought. John walked over quickly and leaned to whisper into Sherlock's ear. "You called your brother?" He asked.

"Sherlock was concerned about your well-being." Mycroft said from the kitchen. Sherlock shifted in his seat and frowned.

"Was not." He pouted.

"I was rather concerned myself with Sherlock, suddenly showing signs of being a decent human being." Mycroft filled the kettle and turned it on. "I had to come over and see it for myself."

"You arrived just in time." John said standing up straight.

"Surprising, how a fourteen year old boy can sense your immediate danger and yet you are entirely oblivious. Are you aware in the slightest what your fate would have been if I hadn't shown up?" Mycroft asked with a chiding tone.

"Arse-less pants?" John suggested. Sherlock giggled.

"Yes funny." Mycroft exhaled. "Funny how one can have consensual sex with a minor and be charged with rape, yet an adult can force his partner into sexual relations and it is socially acceptable." John and Sherlock shut their mouths tight and blushed slightly.

John couldn't figure out Mycroft's angle to save his life. He needed John to spy on Moran, that was certain, but why did he say things about John as if he cared about him and then brushed it off as observations. What was with the kissing? Did he want John and Sherlock together? Or was he just looking for a babysitter for his brother?

Mycroft was incredibly enigmatic, even more so than Sherlock who was about as mysterious as the dark side of the moon.

"Do you think he's going to let up any time soon?" John asked Mycroft.

"Not likely. He won't move on for quite some time. He'll be back to grovel." Mycroft pulled out two packets of tea from his coat pocket. Sherlock gave him a strange look. "Yes Sherlock, I carry my own tea. I know your strong prejudice against Earl Grey."

"Your tea reflects your personality brother-dear." Sherlock lifted his eyebrows.

"And that would be?" Mycroft asked nonchalantly.

"Fruity." Sherlock smirked and John held back a laugh.

"Yes and your choice of tea lacks taste and dimension. Which speaks volumes to your character, Sherlock."

"Ooh… burn." John smiled and Sherlock drew his bow over his violin strings and started butchering a tune.

"For Heaven's sake, stop sawing away on that infernal instrument! It was a sad day when Mummy gave it to you, a sad day for her, a sad day for you, a sad day for us all." Mycroft handed John his tea. "What I cannot understand is why, since you've had that violin with you so long, you never learned to play!" Sherlock started on Chopin's Nocturnes. The cat came out of hiding to jump on to the back of Sherlock's chair.

He rubbed up against the back of Sherlock's head, causing Sherlock to scowl and grit his teeth. Sherlock continued to play until dumb-arse leaned forward and tried to gnaw at his bow's strings. John and Mycroft were delighted with Sherlock's frustration.

Sherlock swatted at the cat with his bow. "I'll have you gutted and made into strings!" He shouted.

"Sherlock, be kind. Very few creatures on this planet enjoy your company and I don't think it fancies being struck repeatedly with a bow." Mycroft looked at the cat with concern. It had its ears slicked back and made no motion to run away as Sherlock kept trying to illicit a response from it with his bow strings.

"Sherlock, you're trying his patience, he's going to claw your face off." John said. Sherlock started poking the cat's belly with the head of his bow.

"What is wrong with it? Why won't it scamper off like an ordinary cat?" Sherlock flicked its whiskers and the cat only twitched its lip in response.

"It has obviously had severe brain damage if it is attracted to you." Mycroft said shooing the cat off the back of the chair.

"You hear that John, you have _severe_ brain damage." Sherlock started to saw away at his violin once more.

"I never-" Mycroft started.

"Well if anything enjoys my company, it must be deranged." Sherlock scoffed.

"This petty feud between us is simply childish." Mycroft said grabbing Sherlock's bow and snatching it away from him. "And you know how it upsets Mummy."

"I upset her? Me? It isn't me who upsets her, Mycroft." Sherlock reached for his bow.

"He's always been so resentful" Mycroft said to John. "You can imagine the Christmas dinners." Mycroft said swatting his brother's hand with his bow. Sherlock withdrew his hand and clutched it tight, glaring at Mycroft.

"Putting on weight again?" Sherlock asked.

"Losing it, in fact."

"All right, all right girls, calm down." John said taking the bow from Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson toddled in unannounced.

"Sherlock there's a boy at the door." Mrs. Hudson said.

"Tell him to go away." Sherlock said snatching his bow away from John.

"He says he's from your school."

"I don't care where he says he's from. Tell him now is not the time." John and Mycroft looked at Sherlock with the same look on their faces, concern. Mrs. Hudson turned and muttered to herself as she returned the front door.

"Who's at the door Sherlock?" John asked.

"How should I know? The whole school's student body is composed of boys, could be anyone." Sherlock placed his violin on his chair and went to stand.

"I believe you know precisely who is at the door." John said looking Sherlock over. Sherlock's face showed sincerity but his eyebrows rose slightly when he lied. Mycroft went to the window and peered out on to the street.

"He must have come by cab." Mycroft scanned the surroundings.

"Why am I under interrogation?" Sherlock asked defensively. "You're the ones hiding something. Playing it off as if you're some sort of… _couple_." Sherlock sneered. "I'm not a fool." Sherlock leaned in close and glared at John.

His eyes darted as he analysed John. He gave John a sniff and stepped back when he had his answer.

"I must say you two are very thorough." Sherlock looked John over from head to toe and back again. "Very… thorough." He frowned.

Mrs. Hudson reappeared at the door with a book in hand.

"Sherlock, you really need to be more… friendly to your friends." Mrs. Hudson sighed and handed Sherlock the book.

"Catcher in the Rye. Hm." John hummed. "Good book, should speak to you." John said patting Sherlock on the shoulder. He walked towards Mycroft and looked out the window with him.

"Fiction." Sherlock scoffed. "I don't read _fiction_."

"Oh Sherlock, anything is better than sitting around the flat moping." Mrs. Hudson assured him.

"Ever since brother-dear cut me off _my_ funds, I've had little else to do." Sherlock said glaring at Mycroft.

"You must be Mycroft." Mrs. Hudson said. "Sherlock's been telling me a lot about you of late."

"Oh have you now?" Mycroft looked back at Sherlock.

"Is that a cat?" Mrs. Hudson looked directly at dumb-arse who stopped in the middle of the floor and started licking itself. "That's the same cat that's been in my bins!" She shouted. "What's it doing inside? Sherlock…" She raised her finger to start her scolding.

"Must have snuck in, I'll take care of him." Sherlock said scooping the cat up and taking it to the open window.

"SHERLOCK!" Mrs. Hudson shouted. She pulled the cat away from Sherlock. "Poor thing. I have just the thing for you downstairs. How about some nice fish?" She said stroking under the cat's chin. The moment Mrs. Hudson left the common area, Sherlock turned to his brother.

"I don't know what you're playing at Mycroft, but know that the game is on."

"Likewise brother-dear."

_What game? Piggy in the middle?_


	16. Chapter 16

"John! John! I've got it!"

John grumbled and drew his blanket around his shoulders and turned away from the boisterous intruder.

"John! What are you doing sleeping at a time like this?" Sherlock asked walking over to John's bedside. He gently started shaking John's shoulder. "Wake up!"

"Sherlock it's not even dawn yet." John squinted and checked his wristwatch. "God Sherlock it's not even five." John adjusted the watch on his wrist. It had dug into his skin while he slept but he was afraid if he took it off it would be misplaced. Most likely it would be misplaced by Sherlock.

The watch was a gift, a bad-arse kind of secret agent gift, from Mycroft. Worth a small fortune, Tag Heuer, not that labels meant anything to John. Limited edition, one of five-thousand, with the vintage logo and everything. Had diamond-tipped hour indexes. What was most impressive was its durability, good up to thirty metres underwater. You could even tell the time underwater if you needed to.

John hoped would never need to check the time while he was at the bottom of an ocean. However, he was anticipating something; so far it had all been all papers and profiles. Endless amounts of readings, on top of his already overwhelming amount of lab write-ups and primary literature he had to get through.

He hadn't seen head or tail of Moran and he was getting anxious. His school work always took a back seat to this exciting case. So far they knew nothing about the Irish boy, other than he was Irish and a boy.

There was no record of him entering the country, under any name. The physical descriptions of him were vague and inconsistent among the pool of less than reliable drug addicts they had at their disposal to cross-examine.

John wasn't present for any of the actual interrogations; he received all of his information, as well as a great deal of smoke, second-hand from Mycroft. It had been a full month without any progress on the case. Just a bunch of dead ends. Mycroft was constantly on edge, though he always kept his composure in the public's eye. Behind closed doors, however, his leg would shake with impatience, he'd smoke an entire packet of cigarettes without a second thought, and he'd always be checking his mobile, though the alert volume was turned all the way up.

John wished he could somehow calm his nerves, but Mycroft was only satiated with progress. John thought if Mycroft did a little more leg-work, instead of relying on others, perhaps there would be more to report. Mycroft was more concerned with social affairs and appearances. He had dinner with a different person every night. John wasn't certain if they were clients, royalty, or business partners. Mycroft kept his affairs secret.

He kept just about everything secret; especially his feelings. John had yet to gauge whether or not Mycroft fancied him or not. They had kissed, on more than several occasions. On one such occasion they even took to running their hands through each other's hair.

These embraces were not of any sort John had ever experienced before. Not even when he was strictly heterosexual. These kisses were soft, light, and tender. They never lead to anything, other than perhaps a 'good-bye' or 'see you on the morrow'.

John supposed they were only meant to lead Sherlock off their trail. He hadn't asked in quite some time whether or not this was still true. He just kissed Mycroft back, no questions asked.

It wasn't as if it was terrible. It was actually quite nice. There wasn't any power struggle or nerves and jitters. He didn't feel pressured or violated. There weren't any high expectations or false promises. It was just lovely.

Not that John thought he fancied Mycroft. The man was pretty stuck up. He was the high class, bureaucratic, snobbish sort. It was as if he was from a different time period. Both Holmes brothers seemed to have been plucked from Edwardian society and thrown into a modern setting.

John came from a sub-urban middle class family but in the shadows of the Holmes' he looked like some street urchin. It didn't help Mycroft was constantly schooling John in etiquette and giving him expensive gifts to improve his appearance. It was like My Fair Lady.

While Mycroft was building John up to be a respectable young gentleman, Sherlock was keeping a watchful eye over John's every move.

Sherlock's attitude toward John had changed immensely when he figured out John was keeping something secret from him. He refused to leave John's side when he was at home and was constantly badgering him. He wanted to stay close just in case John slipped up and said something that would unravel this mystery.

Sherlock talked John's ear off for hours on end and often didn't notice when John left the room. He'd go on and on about his experiments and things he had learned in books. He hardly ever did his school work. He didn't bother writing it down and never really listened to know what it was in the first place. However, his marks were still decent.

John was hoping Sherlock would have a turn-around, improve his marks, start looking into universities, and start dreaming for his future. Sherlock had switched from wanting to major in chemistry to wanting to be a captain of a shrimp boat. Then he had thought shrimp farming would be a safer career; which brought him back to retiring with his bees.

John couldn't possibly follow Sherlock's train of thought. Perhaps Sherlock couldn't follow it either. He was constantly off topic, and nothing he said seemed to have a logical flow. That is until he came to a conclusion and everything tied together.

Earlier that evening Sherlock pointed out that there was a small bump in the carpet. While John was smoothing it out with his foot Sherlock said that dumb-arse had shed on the back of John's armchair. John looked at Sherlock confused. Sherlock also pointed out that the dust had been disturbed on the mantel place and a vase had been moved away from the centre.

After Sherlock noted the tape dispenser being relocated to John's side table, John finally dared to ask "So what?"

"Mrs. Hudson has a date." Sherlock said looking up from his copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_.

"How do you figure?" John asked

"The bump in the carpet, left from a pair of size five high heels. The vase has been moved because it was obstructing the view of the mirror. While Mrs. Hudson was standing back to look herself over dumb-arse jumped on to your arm chair to greet her, leaving fur on her blouse, she went for the tape dispenser to remove it promptly."

"What was she doing up here if she has a date?"

"I had borrowed her gold hoop earrings earlier this week. If you hadn't noticed the skull has been removed from its resting place. She's likely holding it hostage." Sherlock went to stand.

"Where you off to?"

"Recovery mission" Sherlock said simply, adjusting the buttons on his sleeves. He left without another word, leaving John alone in the eerily quiet flat.

John had gone to bed shortly after, only to be awoken by Sherlock who was clearly excited by something. John was trying to shrug Sherlock off and go back to sleep.

"John, I said I've got it!" Sherlock started shaking John harder.

"Sherlock please, I have school."

"Yes but I've solved it."

"Good. Now go to bed." John clamped his eyes tight as Sherlock turned on his bedside light.

"Don't you want to know what I've discovered?" Sherlock pouted.

"Not at this hour." Sherlock grabbed John's arm and looked at the time.

"All right. I'll wait." Sherlock sat on John's bed. He crossed his legs and hummed a little minuet. John let out a sigh and rolled over trying to get comfortable. He started to drift off.

Sherlock started shaking him again.

"Sherlock…" John groaned. "What?"

"It's officially five, now hear me out."

"Unh when I said not at this hour I meant-"

"You're helping my brother with a case!" Sherlock interjected. "A rather important one." John rolled over and glared at Sherlock.

"How you figure?" John asked, not wanting to give it away that he was absolutely correct.

"WELL!" He started.

"Oh dear God." John groaned and rolled over on to his back.

"You two have been actively trying to throw me off your trail with a pretend relationship. Him giving you a ride home from uni. The jacket, the watch, the new wardrobe. The subtle smell of oriental-amber and Sicilian mandarin that lingers on your coat. You two have been very thorough indeed. However! He hasn't once taken you out to dinner. Or anywhere publicly for that matter. He only chain smokes in his office while you sit and review files." Sherlock pointed to the corner of John's eyebrow. "You fiddle with the tip of your eyebrow when you are reading intently, there's always a faint red mark present when you come home from a meeting with Mycroft." Sherlock grinned smugly.

"What? Are you looking for an acknowledgement? You still can't know anything about the case."

"Oh come on! I could have it solved in a tenth the time." Sherlock begged.

"Sherlock, it is far too dangerous for you." John sighed.

"Ah, so you are going to go undercover!" Sherlock shouted. "He likely chose you because you are familiar with the person he's interested in. Friend of Lestrade's? Likely not one of Stamford's, they would only be involved in petty crimes, shop lifting, public drunkenness, indecent exposure and such. Nothing of such importance to have my brother interested." Sherlock steepled his fingers and brought them under his chin. He sat in silence a moment. "That is why you broke up with Lestrade, to lure this… man?" Sherlock looked at John who had his eyes shut and was grimacing. "Yes, of course, it would have to be a man. You are trying to lure the man out into the open. Are you to seduce him?" Sherlock looked at John once more. "No. But he is interested in you." Sherlock continued on with his one-sided conversation while John rolled over on to his stomach and prayed he would stop.

"But what is it about this man?" Sherlock asked the air. He stood up and started pacing the floor. "Drugs? Sex trafficking? Weapons of mass destruction? What could it be!" He shouted. Sherlock stopped mid-stride. "Oh of course!" Sherlock turned and smacked himself in the forehead. "How could I have not seen it before?"

"Unh" John grunted.

"It's all of the above! No wonder why he's of such great importance. You've come to associate yourself with a terrorist!"

"Potential." John mumbled.

"And all of this is occurring right under Gregory Lestrade's nose. How brilliant." Sherlock smiled. "He's probably even indirectly aiding in the propagation of this man's crimes."

"How could you possibly know all of this?" John said lifting his head off the mattress.

"I didn't know for certain, but you confirmed every last one of my suspicions, making it loads easier on my part." John glared at him.

"I haven't said anything."

"Don't need to, you are an open book. A book full of fun little secrets." Sherlock rubbed his hands together.

"By God, could you be any more of a creep?"

"I will keep hounding you until you convince Mycroft to put me on the case." Sherlock sat on John's bedside once more.

"No."

"Then I'll have to keep you awake for the rest of your life. Which, with extensive sleep deprivation, should only be another two weeks. You could be the first human to die from lack of sleep, isn't that exciting?"

"I'll be the first person to be annoyed to death, joy." John mumbled into his pillow.

"Well you wouldn't be the first to be annoyed to death. I've heard of plenty of cases where cars have careened off cliffs because of bickering children in the back-seat."

"That's pleasant." John sighed.

"Do I have to beg? I'm not above it you know. I will get down on my knees if I have to."

"Sherlock. Sleep time." John groaned.

"Please. Please John. Please please please." Sherlock whined. John groaned even louder. Sherlock crawled on the bed towards John and started pawing at his back. "Please, please, please." John started growling. Sherlock straddled John and sat on his lower back and started kneading at John's back. He massaged John's tense muscles, causing John to let out a low moan.

"If you're trying to keep me awake, a back massage might not be the best plan of attack." John started to melt into the mattress. "Though it won't go unappreciated." Sherlock stopped and lay down flat on John's back. He ran his hands under John and brought him into a reverse hug. Sherlock pressed his chin against John's shoulder. Sherlock's breath tickled John's ear. "Please." He sighed.

"I can't in good conscience put you in such danger." John sighed.

"I can't in good conscience let you go into such a dangerous situation alone."

"Sherlock… you have no conscience." John chuckled.

"I do. It's just that the little devil fellow on my right shoulder skewered the angel with his pitchfork and I've been listening to him ever since."

"Ain't that the truth?" John laughed. "What are you doing on my backside?" John shifted to look at Sherlock.

"Cuddle?"

"You're incapable of anything as innocent as a cuddle." John put his head down again. "You're trying to get off with me."

"You think so poorly of me." Sherlock pouted.

"I'm not in the mood tonight dear, or any night for that matter."

"It's near sunrise, are you in the mood for morning shenanigans?"

"No, and no afternoon shenanigans either."

"What happened to fooling around?" Sherlock asked placing a kiss on John's shoulder.

"You went too far."

"I won't this time."

"Exactly." John shifted to roll on to his back. Sherlock lifted up to allow for the change in position. He reseated himself on John's lower abdomen. "There won't be a 'this time'."

"Why not?"

"You can't control yourself." John said brushing his fingers over Sherlock's knuckles.

"Of course I can. I have absolute control over my body. I just don't concern myself with politeness or socially acceptable behaviour."

"If you want me to convince Mycroft to put you on the case, get off."

"I'm trying to." Sherlock said with a wicked grin.

"Sherlock I'm serious." Sherlock looked down at him with concern. He started reading John's face, obviously not liking what he saw.

"It's just pretend you know." Sherlock frowned. "He can't possibly _like_ you." Sherlock shifted his weight on John's pelvis. "Not like I do."

"Sherlock, I'm turning you down because you want too much."

"God, he was only trying to put me off his scent. I don't know why you have to be so emotional about it. It's over, I've exposed the truth. It's over." Sherlock repeated.

"It's too much. You're still far too young."

"Yes! And you're too young for Mycroft. He doesn't even like men like that." Sherlock gritted his teeth. "You won't get anywhere with him, so why waste your time, when I'd gladly give you what you want?"

"But I don't want anything." John laughed. "That's the point."

"You think he's so different from Lestrade." Sherlock snarled. "They're one in the same."

"How so?" John asked doubtfully.

"To them you are a possession. Something pretty to look at, keep on a shelf, and use every so often if they desire." Sherlock let out a breath. "With Lestrade you were a toy, he'd play with you when he wanted and put you back on your shelf when he was done." Sherlock placed a hand on John's chest. "To my brother you're more like a painting. He'd be proud to own you but you'd be hanging there waiting and waiting for him to do something with you and you'll never receive anything but a passing glance. More than half the time he won't even acknowledge your existence, you'll just fade into the scenery."

"And what am I to you?" John asked with a sigh.

"A friend." Sherlock clutched John's hand. John shook his head.

"I'm just one of your experiments. And just like the rest of your failed experiments I'm destined for the rubbish bin when you're done with me."

"I'll never be done with you."

"You get bored with breathing, it is impossible for me to hold your interest forever. One day I will bore you and you will move on."

"You're always boring and mundane. I still like you."

"I suppose I like you too." John sighed.

"I may even love you." John tensed up. "In a non-creepy way."

"With you? Is anything ever not creepy?" John tried to relax.

"I love you. It's decided."

"No. It's not. You can't."

"I can and I do." Sherlock said brushing John's hair off his forehead. John shook his head.

"No you don't."

"You love me too, you just won't admit it yet."

"Loves a bit too powerful of a word. I like you certainly. I can tolerate you for long periods of time. Doesn't mean I _love_ you. You're my flatmate. My creepy flatmate who keeps trying to seduce me and experiment on me in my sleep. Can't we just be friends?"

"Friends can love each other. It's not outside the norm."

"I never have told any of my mates I love em."

"Not even Lestrade?" Sherlock looked at John knowingly.

"Yes… but… that was before..." John sighed.

John thought back to last summer when his mum lost her battle to cancer. She went out with a whimper. She was too weak and frail to walk up the stairs anymore. She hadn't been able to hold down food for a while, but when she couldn't hold down water they all knew she wasn't going to last.

She spent her last four days with her pastor whom with she spoke constantly about heaven and the afterlife. John couldn't contribute to their conversations. He was often sent out into town to fetch small things, run errands. During one of his errands Greg had shown up out of the blue in his car.

John feared the worst, he let his bike drop. From Greg's face he knew she'd finally passed away. John felt a terrible amount of guilt that he hadn't had the chance to say good-bye. He couldn't have possibly said good-bye to his father. He had every opportunity to say good-bye to his mum, yet he kept delaying it, only for her to pass before he got the chance.

During his mum's funeral Greg held his hand while complete strangers told stories about his mum that he had never heard of. John felt like he hardly even knew his mother after meeting so many of her friends and his extended family that only showed up for funerals.

Greg didn't try to cheer John up, which in all likelihood would have upset him further. He just held his hand and that was enough.

Just like at his father's funeral, John broke down sobbing into Greg's waistcoat. He bunched the fabric in his hands and cried heavily.

"You're all I have left." John cried. "And I love you… _so_ much." John shook as he spoke.

"I love you too." John had looked up at Greg through teary eyes. "With all my heart."

The memory made John feel cold and slightly sick to his stomach. Sherlock looked into John's eyes as if he could see the memory for himself.

"Sherlock, it was different." John sighed.

"How?" Sherlock asked sadly.

"He was like a brother to me." John felt a tear form in the corner of his eye.

"He's still like a brother to you." Sherlock sighed. "When all of this dies down, you'll still have a lifetime of positive memories." John felt an awful tightening in his chest. He all of sudden was in terrible pain.

"He was like my brother." Tears were starting to roll down John's cheeks. "I trusted him." John winced in pain. "I loved him." John's pain was excruciating. "He _raped_ me." The word stung John's heart. He started to sob heavily. Every part of him ached. "Why?" He whimpered. His bottom lip quivered and he looked up at Sherlock for an answer. "It's all my fault."

Sherlock leaned down, wrapped his arms around John, and hugged him tight.

"Yes it is." Sherlock said. John stopped sobbing and lay in silence for a moment.

"What?" John asked. Sherlock gently stroked John's hair. "You're supposed to say it isn't my fault."

"Why?" Sherlock pressed up on his hands and looked down at John with confusion.

"Because! It isn't!" John sniffled.

"Well if it wasn't your fault then why would you say it was?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You…" John snorted. "You are so fucked up! Who says such things?"

"I do." Sherlock grinned. Residual tears rolled down John's face as he let out a hearty laugh.

"Only you." John shook his head. John closed his eyes lightly and gently brought their lips together.

_Someone once said 'genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains'. Never did they mean it in this manner._


	17. Chapter 17

"Still cannot believe I was sitting next to that man. He was within inches of me. He touched my leg. Disgusting." John shifted in his seat at the thought. The tube was relatively empty for the time of day. The regular mid-afternoon commuters hadn't yet gotten off work and John and Sherlock were racing against time to get to Dollis Hill.

Sherlock was fixated on getting to Cooper Road before three.

"It isn't un-thinkable that a terror-"

"Sherlock! You can't say… _terrorist."_   John whispered. "Not on public transit."

"I was about to say, it isn't so un-thinkable that a _terrorist_ be in your midst. Why it is quite possible, that on any given day, a man sitting right next to you on the train might be a child molester." John looked around.

"I am not a child molester." John scowled.

"Don't be offended, it's just a technicality."

"Isn't molestation if you like it."

Sherlock chuckled. "Any sexual act on a minor, unwanted or not, is considered molestation."

"You do have quite a selective memory, Sherlock."

"How so?" Sherlock turned slightly brushing their knees together.

"You speak with great expertise about judicial functions, yet you neglect to remember the laws when you're the one breaking them."

"I don't neglect to remember."

"How about when you lit up your cigarette in the middle of the station? Right next to a posting that clearly stated 'No Smoking'." John asked. "Or when you tried to jump the turnstile? Right in front of that police officer."

"I didn't feel like paying the fare." Sherlock crossed his arms. "You didn't have to tell him I was _special needs._ "

"You didn't have to play it off as if you were." John let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his temples. "I can't take you anywhere."

"We're approaching our stop. We must make haste. The family will be returning to their home shortly, we only have a small window of opportunity."

"Sherlock… you have yet to tell me what the hell we're doing out here. Don't you believe I have the right to know?"

"I'll explain as things progress. It is better to go into the operation blind, keep an open mind."

"My mind is open." John was highly frustrated with Sherlock commandeering the case. He went off on his own and never took any leads from Mycroft. He conducted his own research with his 'homeless network'.

They apparently got back to him with a name and address of a family. John was certain Sherlock was planning on breaking and entering into the family's home; for what reason he was entirely uncertain.

John was impressed with Sherlock's focus. He had started spending hours at a time not speaking, just laying on the sofa, his fingers steepled under his chin, thinking. He'd often go so far into his mind palace John found it near impossible to bring him back to the real world.

He wouldn't eat or sleep for days. His school work was suffering; John doubted he even went to half his classes anymore.

John was able to maintain his other life at uni. He was getting by academically but his social life was non-existent. He'd occasionally run into Molly and would usually be so tired to talk he'd make some excuse to get away from her constant babbling. He hardly ever saw Mike anymore, he wondered if Mike was going to drop-out because of his constant absence in the lab. He had hoped it wasn't because of what Sherlock said.

It wasn't as if Sherlock was purposely being mean but something about the truth coming out had his Mike hard. He really didn't look himself anymore. He'd lost a bit of weight but his face looked terrible. He looked like a droopy blood-hound, what with his baggy eyes and slumped shoulders. He was a defeated man.

Mike was so unlike Sherlock. Sherlock had never ending determination and was completely insatiable if his mind was set on something. If someone told Sherlock he was a damned fool he'd just brush them off and call them an absolute idiot.

Sherlock might have been completely dedicated to the case and didn't have the time to take care of his human needs, but he always had time to pursue his desires.

Unfortunately he desired John and was blatantly obvious about it. Last week when Sherlock was in a particularly deep trance, John was wrapped in a towel and was shouting at Sherlock for pouring his new shampoo down the drain. Sherlock remained motionless, staring at the wall.

"Are you listening to me? Sherlock? Sherlock!" John had shouted. Sherlock swiftly reached out his hand, clutched on to John's towel, and ripped it off of John's lower half, leaving him completely exposed in the middle of the sitting room. John stood in shock for a moment. Then Sherlock sprang up on to his feet and gave chase through the kitchen and into his bedroom.

John had successfully defended himself from Sherlock's advances on several occasions. It was a game, and a fun one at that, for both of them. Perhaps that is why Sherlock wasn't deterred from his foolish pursuits.

They often laughed so hard together it brought them to tears and made their sides ache. It was becoming impossible for John to imagine life without the boy.

The train came to a stop in the station and the doors opened. Sherlock made a hasty leave and started to make fast pace towards the way out. John had to run to catch up. Sherlock broke out into a sprint and left John struggling to keep up.

They ran up the stairs, bumping into several people. When they hit the street John took in the scenery. There were rows and rows of brick houses. Sherlock ran down the street full speed.

"How do you know where we're going?" John shouted behind him.

"John concentrate we haven't the time!" Sherlock sped up even more which John thought was impossible. The boy's legs were incredibly long; he'd only just grown an inch and was already graceful on his feet.

They received all sorts of looks when they rounded the corner and started running down a long row of shops. John was starting to lose stamina and his lungs started to sting. Sherlock was a good ten feet ahead of him. John was determined to keep up because he knew Sherlock wouldn't come back for him, as it would surely jeopardize his mission.

John saw the sign for Cooper Road and let out a heavy sigh. Sherlock went straight up to a red house on the corner and hopped over the fence, on to a bin, and leapt on to the shingled awning. He clutched onto the first storey window's ledge.

"Sherlock! Are you mad! We're in broad daylight!" John could see Sherlock's face grimace as he tried to pry the window open.

"Ah ha!" Sherlock shouted as it slid open to allow just enough for him to squeeze his slender body through. John hopped the fence with a bit more difficulty and walked up to the front door. He started to look around. A family of four passed by and John turned away so they wouldn't get a good look at his face.

After they passed John leaned down, pushed open the mail slot, and shouted "Any time you feel like letting me in!" John waited, bouncing up and down on his feet fearing he'd be spotted.

John heard the lock turn and Sherlock swung the door open. "Ah, the false security of an upstairs window." John stepped inside and slammed the door shut behind him, Sherlock locked the deadbolt.

"What's that in your hand?" John said pointing to a piece of bread in Sherlock's hand.

"Got hungry…" Sherlock said as he shoved the rest of the bread in his mouth. "Um on." Sherlock mumbled with his mouth full. Sherlock lead John up the staircase and into one of the bedrooms.

The walls and carpet were a matching atrocious Pepto-Bismol pink colour. John's stomach felt uneasy just looking at it.

"What we're looking for is in some little girl's room?"

"Or a very unfortunate little boy's room." Sherlock said scanning the room with a placid look on his face. There was a small bed in the corner with a pink quilt and an abundant amount of Hello Kitty plush toys. The walls were plastered with girly posters.

_Must only be a real little kid, the posters are all hung low. No Justin Bieber. Either she has good taste or she's six._

John picked up a photograph on the night-stand. It was the girl in a fairy costume, obviously taken at her last birthday. John took a look at the cake on the table which had pink icing and four pink candles. The girl was obviously into pink.

_Four, close enough._

He placed it back and let out a sigh.

"Sherlock what are we looking for?"

"John I need your eyes to be unbiased." Sherlock said opening the wardrobe wide open and plucking through the numerous pink outfits. "Pink." His nose wrinkled with disgust.

"What would be in a little girl's room that's so damned important?" John asked. He knelt on the floor and looked under the bed. There were scattered toys, some standing dust bunnies, but nothing of interest.

Sherlock pulled out three pieces of luggage.

"One of these things is not like the other." Sherlock told John as he went to stand.

"What is this, Sesame Street?" John asked brushing his hands on his trousers.

Sherlock started reading the tags. "Harrold, the husband. Helen, the wife. And Rachel, the daughter." Sherlock had the three suitcases lined up in front of him. "But which could it be?"

"Why don't you just open them up?"

"Their fasteners are held together with locks."

"We can't just carry the three back to Baker Street?"

"Too suspicious." Sherlock said shortly.

"And you climbing into the first storey window like Spider-man wasn't?" John thought a moment. He looked back at the picture of the little girl. "How come that one's labelled Rachel?" John asked.

"To show ownership. Though I doubt they could mix up such a hideously pink bag." Sherlock grimaced.

"Well how come it says Rachel? Little girl's name is Ella." John picked up the picture and handed it to Sherlock. "See." Sherlock stared at the writing on the cake.

"John! That's it! Quick! Out the window." Sherlock threw the two suitcases back in the wardrobe and grabbed the pink one. He went for the window and pried it open. He threw the case out and went to follow.

"Sherlock! Can't we just go through the front door?"

"And leave it unlocked? They'd know immediately someone broke in." Sherlock jumped up on to the ledge and crouched down. He leapt out the window and John heard a loud thud. John looked out the window to see Sherlock standing on a small shed. There was a gap between the roof of the shed and the pavement below. John hesitated.

"I can't make it. It's too far."

"The family is expected back any moment, I'm going back to the station, meet me there." Sherlock shouted, jumping off the shed.

"Sherlock wait!" John shouted. The gap couldn't have been more than six feet, John took in a deep breath and climbed into the window. He stayed crouched like spider-man for a moment. It was an awkward position to take a leap from.

_Sherlock is a fucking cat, of course this easy for him._

A cold shock ran through John's spine as he heard noise downstairs, a fumbling of keys, the turn of a lock. John took a flying leap. He landed, less than gracefully on his hands and knees on the roof of the shed. He quickly recovered and sprinted off the roof of the shed and jumped on to the street below.

He ran to the end of the street and became disoriented. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Fuck!" He shouted. He turned right and started running down an unfamiliar area. He was too scared to turn back so he kept running, getting more helplessly lost. He passed a college and started cursing. "Shit, shit, shit!" He shouted as he ran.

He turned down numerous side streets, every house looked the same, he feared he'd pass by the house he had just robbed.

_There's no doubt they saw me! Heard me! They'll know what I took and will have me killed in a back-alley!_

John was in an absolute panic. He turned to look behind and didn't notice a cab taking a sharp turn and barrelling toward him at full speed. John saw the cab and stopped like a deer in headlights. The cabbie slammed on the brakes. John shut his eyes awaiting the inevitable impact.

John felt the wind knocked out of him as he hit the pavement. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock on top of him. He had dove and tackled John at the last moment to save him from the speeding cab. He was panting heavily.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes I know. You owe me a lifetime of servitude."

"The case Sherlock!" John shouted. The case was left standing on the corner. People had started gathering. Sherlock pressed up on his hands and quickly sprang to his feet. He darted for the case and snatched it. The cab driver stepped out.

"For God's sake boy! You came out of nowhere! What were you finking?" The man shouted. "I could've flattened you!"

"Back to your post!" Sherlock shouted at the driver and hopped into the back of the cab. "Come on John." John stood up and hobbled towards the cab.

"Kids these days." The driver shook his head and got back in his cab. John got in with Sherlock who had the pink case on his lap. "Pink?" The driver raised an eyebrow as he looked at Sherlock through the rear-view mirror.

"We're on holiday." Sherlock sneered. "221B Baker street and don't go taking the round-about way. I'm well aware of how you take advantage of us tourists." The driver snarled his lip.

"Oi, you can walk if you'd like."

"Do you want the fare or not?" Sherlock retorted. The cabbie shook his head.

"Sherlock, how are we paying for this?" John whispered trying not to gain the cabbie's attention.

"You don't happen to have a hair pin do you?" Sherlock said fiddling with the lock on the zips.

"Yeah, of course, lemme just let down my hair." John looked at Sherlock who was waiting. "Course I don't!"

"Wait." Sherlock said padding his blazer's pocket. "I might actually… yes." He pulled out a bobby pin.

"Sherlock?" John questioned.

"What?" Sherlock looked at John. "It's the perfect multi-tasker. It is better than a paper clip, can be used as a book mark, a bodkin, a screwdriver, you can use it to press the reset button on electronics, it is a tie clip, not to mention a wonderful hair styling aid. It can be concealed easily in a pocket. Used as a deadly assault weapon." John chuckled as Sherlock pretended to jab out his eyes with the pin. "And, most of all it is a highly effective lock pick." Sherlock raised his eyebrows and grinned. He shook the pin at John. "Never leave home without one."

John was reminded of Mycroft's umbrella. The simple beauty of ordinary household objects.

"Now we simply, insert the pin, give it a few turns. My how I love a simple lock." The lock clicked open and Sherlock pulled it off and threw it on to John's lap. Sherlock unzipped the suitcase and opened it up.

Both boys stared at the briefcase perfectly nestled inside. Sherlock pursed his lips.

"Well then…" He smacked his lips. "Hm." He hummed. He pulled the briefcase out and looked it over. "Four digit numeric lock."

"Yeah, good luck with that one." John turned to look out the window. "There's like ten thousand different combinations it could be."

"Wrong." Sherlock said shortly. John looked back at him in disbelief.

"There's ten different numbers, 0-9 on each dial, and there's four dials. I know probabilities Sherlock. That's ten to the fourth."

"Nope."

"Sherlock! For God's sake, it's primary school stuff. There is no way you are going to get that open in the next ten minutes."

"The combination is 0-0-0-0." Sherlock slid the latch to the side and started turning the dials, stopping every once in a while, then turning the next. He fiddled with them until they all showed '0'. He let go of the latch. "There. Open it." He handed it to John who looked at him doubtfully.

John placed the case on his lap. Slid the latch to the side and the case popped open.

"How the hell?" John looked at the case incredulously.

"You were correct in saying there are ten thousand possible combinations for a four digit lock. However, there was only one combination that it could be, the one I chose. I simply reset the lock John. Primary school stuff."

"How'd-"

"I've changed Mycroft's numeric combinations on all of his briefcases ten times over. This was child's play. One four digit code? Mycroft once had a briefcase with six digits and three locks. After fiddling with it for two hours I destroyed the locks, sealing the contents inside to this day." Sherlock grinned and let out a sigh of content, he was obviously very fond of the memory.

"By God what happened?"

"Remember the Pentagon? 9/11?"

"Oh shut the fuck up." John said punching Sherlock in the arm.

"All right, all right, they were only some rather suggestive photographs of some of the members of the royal family."

"Really?" Sherlock nodded. "It's a good thing they were sealed up. Don't fancy seeing ol' Elizabeth's knickers while she's posing all suggestively. Yuck."

"Who?"

"Elizabeth the second."

"Who?" Sherlock repeated.

John looked at Sherlock as if it was the stupidest question he had ever heard.

"Who? Who! Sherlock, are you that bloody ignorant?" John let out a berated sigh. "For the love of God Sherlock! The bloody fucking Queen of England!"

"Ah! The old lizard on the telly. Right…" Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. "Doesn't matter, the position is just for show. She holds no real power."

"She can wage war against other countries and dissolve parliament. She can throw David Cameron out on his arse." Sherlock looked at him confused. "Sherlock, really? The Prime minister?"

"Oh who bloody cares?"

"Um… everybody?"

"I don't."

"Obviously." John let out a sigh. "What's in this case anyhow?" Sherlock gave him a wicked grin. "Sherlock." John let out a gasp. "It's not…" He leaned in and whispered " _Drugs_ is it?"

"Take a look." Sherlock whispered back. John slowly opened the case as if a snake was going to leap out and bite him in the face.

His face went blank. He couldn't believe his eyes.

"Holy shit Sherlock there must be… hundreds of thousands… millions!"

"Nine million to be precise."

"Nine million." John repeated in shock. "Nine million Euros." John stared at the notes. "How are we supposed to pay the fare with a five hundred Euro note?"

"I honestly doubt that he would give a second thought to such a hefty tip."

"He'll think it's counterfeit or that we robbed a bank!" John gulped. "By God, this is drug money isn't it?"

"It was intended to enter the weapons trade. Mycroft has been scouring the entire country for their rendezvous point to stop the transaction." Sherlock grinned. "Why dam the river when you can cut it off at the source?" John looked at Sherlock, mouth agape. "Oh fine, I'll pay him out of my own pocket. He did try to hit you with his cab. Doesn't deserve a four-hundred pound gratuity." Sherlock looked at John. "Now if he would have hit you square on, then maybe…"

"Oh shut up." John chuckled. He shut the briefcase and handed it back to Sherlock to put back in the pink suitcase. Right as Sherlock was zipping it back up, the cab pulled up at Baker street.

"27.50." The cabbie handed Sherlock the receipt.

"27.50!" Sherlock shouted. "Are you mad? It's nineteen from Baker Street to Gladstone Park. I'm not paying you a penny more."

"It's high traffic." The cabbie clicked his tongue.

"High traffic! We didn't hit high traffic until we passed Kilburn. That would only tack on another two pounds at most, not another ten." Sherlock hissed through his teeth and reached for his pocketbook. "You're getting twenty and consider yourself fortunate I don't turn you in." Sherlock threw the twenty at the man. "Not indicating your turn, going ten over the marked limit, almost running over my boyfriend, they'd have your head for this at the company. Could lose your job. God knows you're close too. One more bad call and they'll give you the axe. I'll let you go, this time, your wife and kids will thank me."

"Have a good day, sir." The cabbie said through clenched teeth.

"Essex bastard." Sherlock said shoving John out of the car and on to Baker Street. The cab sped off and near ran into a parked car.

"Really Sherlock?"

"What? He was trying to rip us off. I won't stand for it." Sherlock said brushing off the front of his blazer. He started pulling at his sleeves. John gave him a look. "What?" Sherlock asked annoyed.

"Boyfriend?" John put his hands in the air. "Really?"

"I said friend." Sherlock looked away and went for the front door.

"No. No you didn't. You distinctly said 'boyfriend'." John followed him into the flat.

"I meant friend."

"Freudian slip?" John jeered. Sherlock climbed the stairs with the pink suitcase in hand. John shook his head.

"What are we going to do with nine million Euros?" John asked with a heavy sigh.

"Whatever we damn well please."

"Sherlock! That money should be handed over to the police."

"So they can put it in holding? No!"

"You can't bloody take it! It belongs to bloody terrorists. What if they come looking for it?" John reached out and grabbed the bag, stopping Sherlock in his tracks.

"Let go." Sherlock tugged at the suitcase.

"It's not yours."

"Would you rather the terrorists have it?"

"No."

"Well there you go." Sherlock pulled the suitcase away and went to the front door and swung it open.

"Do you ever lock the door any more?" John asked.

"Baker Street could do with a break in. Give me something interesting to do. Track down the criminals. Far more interesting than our day to day lives." Sherlock threw the suitcase on the coffee table.

"We just stole nine million Euros from a major terrorist organization! How much more interesting can you get?"

"I was hoping for a murder. Those are always fun."

"You… God!" John shouted in frustration. "There'll be a bloody murder if we get caught with this case. What do you plan on doing with it?"

"I have just the spot for it." Sherlock patted the case.

"Under your bed?"

"Far too obvious." Sherlock brought his hands behind his back and strode the floor with a high level of arrogance in his appearance. "No my dear John, I will keep it in a place safer than the vault at the Bank of England. With more secrets than Room 39."

"Where's that?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret, now would it?" Sherlock patted John on the head. "Never fear, it will be in safe hands."

"Pat me on the head one more time and your throat won't be in safe hands."

"Temper temper John." Sherlock grabbed the remote and turned on the telly. "Relax, unwind for a bit." Sherlock started flipping through the channels.

"Wait, go back." John grabbed Sherlock's forearm. "Go back Sherlock."

"Maybe television isn't the best way to settle down. How about bed? You me? Between the sheets?" John wrenched the remote from Sherlock's hands and flipped back to BBC news.

_Breaking News: Massive Explosion Wipes out City Block._

"Sherlock! That's Cooper Street! Christ Sherlock! It… it…"

" _What officials are calling a catastrophic failure in the city's gas lines; some are calling an act of terrorism_." The scene cut to the street where the row of houses were obliterated. One of them in particular, the one on the corner, nothing was left, not even the shed. " _Three people have been confirmed dead, three missing, and twenty injured. Among the dead was four year-"_ John clicked off the set. His head felt like it was about to burst.

"They're dead Sherlock." John stared at the ground. He expected tears to come but they wouldn't. John kept shaking his head. Waiting for something. "I've cried over a whole lot less of late. Three people have been wiped off the face of the planet, one of them just a little girl, and it's all my fault." John ran a hand through his hair. "Why aren't I crying?"

"You saved the lives of hundreds, John."

"That's not the point!" John snarled and grabbed Sherlock's blazer with both hands. "People have died!"

"Nine million Euros John. Imagine what was being purchased at that meeting. Imagine the destruction this money could have caused."

"She was four years old Sherlock."

"Hundreds John."

"It's not about numbers Sherlock."

"A trolley is hurtling down a track towards five people. You are on a bridge under which it will pass, and you can stop it by dropping a heavy weight in front of it. As it happens, there is a very fat man next to you. Your only way to stop the trolley is to push him over the bridge and onto the track, killing him to save five. Should you proceed?" Sherlock pulled John's hands away from his blazer. "Now most people would skirt around the problem, suggest they yell at the people to make them move, somehow switch the tracks, never actually answering the question. There is however only one correct answer."

"I'd throw myself in front of the trolley." John said plainly.

"Yes. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" Sherlock clenched his teeth. "It'd be a waste, it's not an option."

"Sure it is. I couldn't live with myself either way."

"You're a damned fool John Watson."

"And you're an absolute idiot Sherlock Holmes."

"Will you ever forgive me?" Sherlock asked with a sad look in his eyes.

"Already have." John sighed. "We need to forge on with the case or there will be plenty more families just like that one."

"We haven't a moment to lose then. Gather your things we're going to Soho."

"We're not going to Moran directly are we?"

"Of course not." Sherlock smirked. "We just bore witness to a major crime; we should consult a police officer."

"No you don't mean…"

"We need an ally John. Someone that can make arrests. Has access to police records. A friend of Moran. He's perfect."

"Sherlock. I can't. There's too much history between us."

"He's a direct line to Moran, don't devalue his worth because of your past."

"Watch me. I won't do it." John crossed his arms.

"You will." Sherlock sighed. Sherlock looked off into space for a moment. He reached out a hand it placed it on John's shoulder. "You always do."

_There will come a day when I don't._


	18. Chapter 18

"Hold up, 'splain it again. How'd you go and get this address?" Greg looked at Sherlock with confusion. They were sitting in Greg's new one bedroom flat in Waterloo. It had a decent size living area, full kitchen, and most importantly, a loo. John thought it was a vast improvement from his room in the boarding house.

"Homeless network." Sherlock said looking at the ceiling.

"Homeless network?" Greg squinted and titled his head.

"My eyes and ears all over the city."

"Huh." Greg nodded. "That's clever. So you scratch their backs and…"

"Yes. And then disinfect myself."

Greg chuckled. "Right." Greg nodded to himself. "What's on my ceiling that's got you so interested?" Greg asked.

"Your neighbours."

"What bout them?" Greg looked up as well.

"They're having sex." Greg snorted.

"Problem?" He asked.

"There's five of them up there." Sherlock grimaced.

"Looks like Soho is trying to follow me wherever I go." Greg smiled at the ceiling. "So… what brings you out here?"

"I'm sure you're aware of the incident near Dollis Hill." Sherlock looked down from the ceiling and at Greg.

"Sure, big gas leak, killed a family of four."

"Family of three." Sherlock corrected.

"Four. Wife was pregnant, bout six months. Don't know where you stand on the whole being a person debate, but I consider that a family of four." Greg shook his head. "Damn shame." John felt a cold chill run up his spine.

_Rachel._

"I'm not here to debate what constitutes a person. There are plenty of people that walk the streets that I would consider inhuman anyhow." Sherlock started digging at a hang-nail on his thumb. "Besides, it wasn't a gas leak."

"It wasn't?" Greg furrowed his brow. "You one of those conspiracy theorists?"

"Yes, the government made quick work of this case. Blamed the faulty gas lines. Paid off the inspector to give a false report. Had a man falsely imprisoned to appease the public outcry. Classic Mycroft." Sherlock let out a huff.

"If you're trying to get some kind of police intelligence out of me, look at the reports, forget it. It's classified." Greg shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Motorbike?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"You were involved in an accident, were you on your motorbike?" Sherlock looked sincerely concerned. John was utterly confused, which was becoming the norm.

"Yeah, got blind-sided on Fleet street. Some… bloody cab driver." Greg shifted once more. "Came out of nowhere, didn't even bloody indicate."

"Grey hair? Rounded spectacles? Wore a checked driving cap?"

"You been stalking me?" Greg asked concerned.

"We had the misfortune of meeting the man earlier just outside the College of North West London."

"What were you two doing out near Dollis Hill earlier today? That's awful close to Cooper Road." Greg looked at Sherlock intently.

"Very good detective. You know your way around London. Unfortunately John still can't find his way back from the corner store." Sherlock leaned forward and put his hands on his lap. "Tell me. What do you know about a Sebastian Moran?"

"Old friend of mine… well I say _friend_. Haven't seen em in months. How come you're asking? And what's this got to do with the two of you hanging round Cooper Road?"

"In good time Lestrade. Now tell me about the man." Greg looked toward John for some sort of confirmation. John hadn't said a word to Greg since they entered the flat. Greg leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs out on to the ottoman, wincing slightly.

"Well… Says he was born in London. Calls it the great cesspool. Says all the low-lives and sex crazed drug-addicts are irresistibly drawn here. Can't disagree with the man there. Erm… he's highly educated… went to Eaton College before Oxford."

"John told me you two met at uni?"

"Yeah." Greg furrowed his brow.

"You're telling me you went to Oxford?" Sherlock looked at him half-lidded.

"Oi, what's that supposed to mean?"

"You mean to tell me you studied law at Oxford."

"Jurisprudence."

Sherlock looked confused. "And you became a police officer?"

"Had a change of heart. Easy enough transition."

"Never mind." Sherlock waved the idea away with his hand. "What did Moran do after uni?"

"Did a tour in Afghanistan. Army I think."

Sherlock hummed and thought for some time. He tapped his fingers on his thumb as if he was playing his violin while he thought. He titled his head to one side, lifted an eyebrow.

"And in his last year? Before returning to London?"

"India." Greg said stretching his arms above his head. He relaxed his hands on his head. "Says he's the reason those tigers are going extinct. He's big into sports. You know, the kind wiv guns. Once shot a tiger; followed the poor wounded bastard into a drainage pipe. Says he strangled it to death with his bare hands."

"You believe that story?"

"He's got photographs and a tiger skin rug. So yeah, I'd say his story checks out."

"You've been to his flat then?" Sherlock's eyes widened and he smirked.

"Used to play cards. He's wicked good at them too. Lucky we only played strip poker, I'd be out millions."

"His boyfriend, the Irish boy?" Sherlock asked excitedly on the edge of his seat.

"Boyfriend." Greg chuckled. "Wouldn't call em that." Greg shook his head. "Seb called him his little pet. Real gross relationship. Kids a real creep too. He's got black eyes, I swear. Always standing in the shadows, lurking with those dark eyes. He's real lizard like. Always rolling his neck, licking his lips. Probably a side-effect, all the X he's been loaded up with."

"Why didn't you go to the police?" John exclaimed.

"Weren't no evidence. Didn't have solid grounds."

"He bragged about it! God's sake, doesn't that make him a suspect? Why weren't the police involved? You _are_ the bloody police for Christ's sake." John was infuriated that Greg let this pass by under his nose.

"John, don't badger the police officer. He's right. There were no solid grounds." John placed his head in his hand and looked away from the two of them. "Even if he were to have him arrested, Moran would turn around and make him a target."

"A target?" Greg asked. "Target for what?"

"We have every reason to believe Sebastian Moran is a ring-leader in a terrorist organization."

"What… like Al-Qaeda?"

"Worse." Sherlock pursed his lips. "India… Awful close to Pakistan wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah… suppose… What's that-"

"No, no. Don't." Sherlock close his eyes and waved his index finger.

"What?" Greg asked indignantly.

"You were about to say something stupid. You were on a roll Lestrade, let's not break your streak." Sherlock sighed when he saw the anger in Greg's face. "My apologies, I've always found your accent quite off-putting. Not used to anyone saying anything remotely intelligent from that area."

"From Aldershot?"

"Spent quite some time in Somerset?"

"When I was real little. Who gives a fuck, it's an English county."

"Welsh parents?"

"Mum was… is." Greg looked flustered.

"Cardiff no doubt. Working class." Sherlock sneered.

"Oi, what's wrong with the working class? Posh git. Person's accent isn't a reflection of their intelligence."

"I only said it was off-putting."

"Calling my mum working class."

"She worked as a travel coordinator. Hardly a prestigious position."

"How the fuck-"

"You come from Weston-super-Mare. It's a sea-side resort, where people go on holiday. The only people that live there for any extended amount of time are those who profit on travel."

"Yeah but travel coordinator? That's oddly specific, don't you think?"

"Hardly. You obviously travelled quite a bit as a child, picked up on some local dialects. Even made it as far as New York. Only makes sense your mother would be a travel coordinator."

"How do you know it weren't my dad?"

"I find it hard to believe a struggling musician would want to put himself into the family business. Likely didn't get along with your maternal grandparents."

"Sherlock, you can stop now." John sighed.

"Oh I might as well go on. There's only one more item on the list. Your father's piano?" Sherlock said pointing to the piano against the wall.

"Yeah?" Greg questioned.

"Painted at one point, stripped, re-varnished twice. Had the piano on casters at one point in time. He was in several unsuccessful bands. The keys have been replaced several times. The mute lock shows frequent use. In order to bring in more funds he taught piano lessons to children."

"How'd you know my grandparents and him didn't get along?"

"Musicians and in-laws rarely ever have positive relationships." Greg shook his head.

"All right… I'm impressed." Greg chuckled. "So Seb's a terrorist. What you want me for?"

"I need direct access to the police without having to deal with them myself. You're the least annoying officer I've met."

"Thanks? I think…" Greg furrowed his brow. "What makes you think I'll help you?"

"You want to see Moran go down as much as anybody. Imagine what revealing the criminal mastermind behind Cooper Road attack would do for your position in the police force." Sherlock had a smug grin on his face.

"Could get into a shit ton of trouble. Releasing classified information to some kid."

"I'm not some kid. I'm Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective."

"Made that up all on your own?" Greg chuckled.

"Had to. Job doesn't exist."

"Some call it a private eye."

"The police don't consult private eyes."

"Don't consult amateurs either."

"Exactly." Sherlock said with a smile.

"What… you two the Hardy Boys now? Gonna go solve mysteries? Dissolve a major terrorist organization. You know… normal teenage stuff." Greg laughed. "No offence, you have talent, but you honestly believe you can bring down someone like Sebastian?"

"We work behind the scenes, gather information. Put it all together. It's not like we're hunting Moran down. I avoid confrontations, unless absolutely necessary."

"Christ, can't believe I'm saying this… I'll… see what I can do." Greg sighed. "See if I can help you out."

Sherlock sprang up out of his seat. "Your country will thank you. I assure you, Moran won't see the light of day after we're done with him." Sherlock near jumped with joy. "Come along John, Greg needs to ready himself for his date tonight."

"Date?" John asked. Greg looked at Sherlock with a look that begged him to be silent.

"Do I have to explain everything to you? Of course he has a date. Freshly shaved, hair combed off to one side. New body spray. Say hi to her for us, we'd better get going." Sherlock said reaching out a hand for John.

"Her?" John asked. Greg rolled his eyes.

"You knew him when he was gay. Would he dress like that for a man?" John looked at Greg who was in a plain t-shirt and jeans.

"No… suppose… not…" John stammered.

_By God. Girls go on and on about how they've turned men gay. I've gone and turned one straight._

"What happened?" John asked.

"Just got fed up with the life style. Just wasn't me. Didn't like who I was becoming." Greg sighed. "It was all sex, sex, sex 24/7."

"I… but… Being gay isn't something you can turn off and on. At least… don't think it is…" John wondered if it was.

"I was just confused is all. Chock it up to post traumatic stress." Greg shrugged. "Fatherhood, I panicked. Had myself a quarter-life crisis or whatever."

"So you're back with Susan then?"

"No, no. She's gone and found some PE teacher. He's got kids of his own. Real odd." Greg grimaced. "She could never get over the gay thing." Greg shook his head. "How have you been?" Greg showed discomfort. "Still with the ginger?" John's eyes briefly darted to Sherlock. He shied away on the sofa.

"Suppose…" John shrugged. He felt Sherlock looking at him. "Taking it slow…" John felt incredibly awkward discussing their relationship in front of Sherlock.

Greg let out a heavy sigh. "Bless. I was worried bout you."

"I'm fine. Can… take care of myself."

"Sorry." Greg looked at John with sad eyes. Greg ran his hands through his hair and let out a sigh. "I really fucked up."

"I know." John said standing up. "Guess I'll be seeing you."

"Take care." Greg said standing up. He reached out a hand and John looked at it a moment before giving him a firm handshake. They gave each other half-hearted grins and John let go first.

Sherlock and John left the flat and stood in the hallway for a moment.

"Glad you came along?" Sherlock asked.

"Suppose." John shrugged. They started walking to the stairwell.

"You know he's still gay right?" Sherlock asked with a grin.

"Oh there's no doubt in my mind he is." John smirked.

"Gayest man I've ever met." Sherlock chuckled.

"Is gayest even a word?" John giggled.

"Is now. You, denial is not just a river in Egypt."

"Guy's so far in the closet he's in Narnia." They both chuckled. "Where we off to now? Home I hope. It's near five."

"I have to stop off at the bank."

"The bank?" John opened the door to the stairwell and let Sherlock in first.

"Need to exchange some currency."

"No, no. Sherlock! Seriously? You can't go turning nine million Euros into pounds. They're bound to notice!"

"John… Do you have any idea how much a five hundred Euro note is worth?"

"I don't know... Five hundred Euros?" John chuckled.

"Cute John." Sherlock pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket.

"What's that?"

"Birthday card."

"Bit belated don't you think?" John shrugged and took the card. Sherlock pulled out another envelope.

"A bit early for mine." Sherlock swiftly moved down the stairs. "Rich distant Aunt, sends her nephews each a birthday card once a year with a five hundred Euro note tucked inside. Calls it a combined gift for Christmas and birthday. Boys pull it out at the bank, nobody bats an eyelash."

"And we're up eight-hundred fifty pounds." John shrugged.

"852.75"

"Piss off. I was close."

"Horseshoes and hand grenades John."

"Sherlock, at this rate. If each of us cashed a five hundred Euro note a day. How long would it take to exhaust our funds?"

"A little over twenty-four and a half years."

"You know this is wrong on so many different levels, right?"

"I'm aware."

"Just checking." John smirked. "What stupid thing are you going to buy first?"

"Hm." Sherlock thought. "Pudding."

"Pudding?" John stopped in the middle of the staircase. "Serious?"

"Vanilla pudding." Sherlock said reaching the end of the staircase.

"Pre-made?"

"Nope. In the package."

"You're going to spend all of one pound on a packet of pudding?"

"Half a pound." Sherlock said opening the door leading to the front lawn.

"You know… you could purchase a thousand packets of pudding."

"I'd have to purchase a considerable amount of milk as well." Sherlock shrugged. "Nope, the one is enough. We can share if you'd like."

"You feeling all right?"

"I suppose." Sherlock let out a sigh.

"You're not pregnant are you?" John chuckled.

"I don't know."

"Sherlock… you know you can't-"

"Oh of course I know John. I mean I just don't know." Sherlock blinked and shook his head. "Can we skip the bank and head home?" Sherlock asked.

"You sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock rolled his eyes when John placed a hand on his forehead. "Do you know how inaccurate that is at checking for fever?" John placed both hands on his cheeks.

"You want to hear my professional opinion?"

"Do tell."

"Someone's got a bad case of the grumpy gills." John said pinching Sherlock's cheeks. "Try smiling more often."

"Can't, hurts my face. I wasn't meant to smile. Now let go of my face." Sherlock's lip twitched into a snarl. John let go "John you go ahead. I'll meet you later."

"What's wrong Sherlock? You've been on edge ever since you got back from talking with the Baker Street irregulars."

"It's nothing I'm fine." Sherlock hand shook.

"Sherlock. You're all pale, paler than normal. You're probably coming down with something. Come on. We'll get a cab." John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand. It was clammy and cold. Sherlock shook off John's hand.

"I am fine. In fact I've never been better. So just _Leave. Me. Alone."_   Sherlock hissed. He glared at John.

"Ok. Ok." John felt slightly hurt by Sherlock's sudden outburst. "Just… don't be out too late." John stepped outside. "Sherlock… could you take good care of yourself? You know… for me?"

"I'm perfectly capable of caring for myself."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But you don't always do it."

_And I worry about you. Constantly._


	19. Chapter 19

"That little stunt you pulled on Cooper Road has cost us dearly. It has taken valuable resources away from our search. Yet you don't appear to have any remorse for your actions."

"You're acting like I set the bomb off myself." John shook his head. "I didn't know. Sherlock told me nothing about what he was doing until after the fact."

"You allowed a child to break into a hitman's family home to steal several million pounds meant for a black market weapons trade."

"He would have done it alone if I wasn't there. He was convinced that it would save the lives of hundreds of people."

"No doubt it did." Mycroft clicked his tongue. "This doesn't diminish the fact that you two are in possession of a massive sum of money; money which multiple drug cartels are actively searching for."

"Mycroft, I don't know where Sherlock has it hidden! He won't tell me." John rubbed his temples feeling his stress migraine start to grow intensity. His head was pulsating.

"John, find it." Mycroft looked at him seriously. "If you don't, they will." Mycroft walked behind his desk and took a seat. He leaned back and let out a deep sigh. "How is my brother?"

John rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and fore-finger.

"I honestly don't know. He came home real late last night. Fell asleep on the sofa. I just let him stay home from school today. He looked terrible." John let out a sigh. His eyes were starting to water from his headache.

"When he's well, have him take a look at the file."

"What file?" John closed his eyes. He started feeling sick to his stomach. Mycroft let out a sigh and leaned forward in his chair to press his phone's intercom.

"Anthea, Mr. Watson is in need of tension head-ache relief. On the double." Mycroft sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Do try not to void the contents of your stomach on my rug, it's authentic." John looked down at the Persian rug and instantly got vertigo.

_I must have what Sherlock has. Poor kid. Fuck._

John felt the migraine migrate from his temporal lobe to behind his eyes. He grimaced in pain. He felt a tap on his shoulder and jolted. His head cried out in pain from the sudden movement.

He opened one eye to see a young lady holding a cup of apple sauce. John grabbed it rather confused.

"Try not to chew it." Mycroft said with a small grin.

"Apple sauce?" John asked.

_Why would I chew apple sauce?_

The young lady produced a spoon out of thin air and gave it to John. She gave him a kind smile yet she had a slight hint of malice in her eyes. She pulled out her blackberry and started tapping away; she continued to smile as she left the room. She knew something John didn't.

John started to eat the apple sauce and tried not to chew or slurp, which was proving to be difficult.

"My apologies, the onset isn't instantaneous, it won't take effect for another fifteen minutes." Mycroft looked away for a moment and furrowed his brow. "Hm. However, the dosage might be slightly off…" Mycroft recovered with a grin. "Not that it matters. Relief is relief, am I right?"

"Huh?" John asked concerned.

"I am quite familiar with migraines John. I've had my fair share. The majority are family related, as you can imagine."

"What do you do for yours?"

"They call it a _Migraine Cocktail."_

"Hunh." John sat and blinked for a moment. "They wouldn't… say… suspend this cocktail in apple sauce would they?"

"Yes, they would actually." Mycroft raised his eyebrows and looked a bit concerned. "The thought hadn't crossed my mind until just a moment ago. You're about two stones off my weight." Mycroft's face grimaced slightly. "Feeling any better?" Mycroft gave John a crooked grin.

"Actually… I'm feeling a bit better. Head ache is easing up."

"Hm. That's good. Very good." Mycroft nodded. "Now I'm not a pharmacologist, I don't pretend to be one either, but I'd say, in the near future your head ache should be all cleared up." Mycroft grimaced slightly. "Might even forget you have a head at'all."

"Ah-ha… Yep… starting to feel.. yeah… What's in this cocktail?"

"A considerable amount of morphine." Mycroft said with a slight pout. He put his elbows on his desk and rested his chin on the back of his hands. "I do apologise for my negligence."

"Nah Mycroft actually this is actually quite… Oh my God." John threw his head back, hitting the back of the chair. He started to melt into his seat.

"All right, three stones off." Mycroft sneered.

"My God Mycroft this is amazing." John said slinking further down into his seat. He felt a warm tingle all over his body. His pain was non-existent. He felt non-existent. He rubbed the arm of the chair to check if he was still there and not floating in midair.

He'd had morphine once before, when he had broken his leg falling off his bicycle. It had only kerbed the pain and made it manageable. Then again, they had only given him the minimum therapeutic dose.

"This is loads better than ecstasy." John said smiling uncontrollably. Instead of being filled with burning desire and loads of energy, John felt like he was wrapped in a warm blanket and was quite content remaining motionless.

"Oh God, don't go and turn into an addict on me." Mycroft clicked his tongue. John had finally slid down far enough that his head was resting on the seat. He kept on sliding, all the way down to the floor, where he landed with a small thud. John rolled over on to his stomach and ground his hips into the floor slightly. Mycroft let out another sigh and pushed the intercom once more. "What is the duration of effect on the medication administered to Mr. Watson?"

" _Three hours, sir."_ The intercom buzzed and crackled.

"Is that number reported in a range?" Mycroft let go of the button and tapped his middle finger on his desktop.

" _Three to seven, sir."_

"Thank you." Mycroft held his finger above the intercom button for a moment. He pressed it once more. "And Anthea." He lifted his finger once more.

" _Yes sir?"_

"Would you please go through the stack of applications and find me a more _adept_ personal assistant?"

" _I'll get right on it sir."_ Mycroft let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his face.

"John, how is your respiratory rate?" Mycroft rubbed his forehead.

"This rug is amazing." John purred. "Oh… breathing is fine too. I like breathing." He hummed and stretched his arms out on to the carpet. Mycroft was starting to feel the tell-tale signs of a tension head-ache come on. He rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders. He let out a heavy sigh.

Mycroft reached out and hit the intercom button. "Anthea, hold off on the interviews, it appears I will be joining Mr. Watson on the floor shortly."

John fell into a heavy dreamless sleep. He awoke in a haze. He was surrounded by darkness. John slowly brought himself up to his hands and knees. He felt a bit light-headed but he no longer had a debilitating migraine.

John brought himself to standing and found his legs were a bit uneasy. He stumbled forward and caught himself. He started searching the dark for a light switch and his shins smacked into something hard.

"Fuck." He cursed. He reached out to feel what it was and felt something soft. The thing jerked and made a snorty grunt.

"Oh shit… Fuck… Hope that's you Mycroft."

"You hope?" Mycroft asked. John's eyes were still adjusting to the darkness. He could barely make out the sofa in front of him. "Tension head-ache. Decided to have a lie down."

"Apple sauce?" John asked.

"No, opted for intravenous." John furrowed his brow. "Don't give me that look."

"What look?" John laughed. "Its pitch black, you can't see your own hand let alone my face."

"I know what you're thinking." Mycroft chuckled softly. "It's purely medicinal. I'm not some junkie."

"Nah, I was thinking why's your hand on the back of my leg."

"Oh… apologies." Mycroft moved his hand up and down gently.

"You haven't removed it." John stated.

"No I haven't." They both snorted. "Yes, you're absolutely right: we shouldn't be doing this in our state."

"I didn't say… anything…" John's eyes started to adjust and he could barely make out Mycroft's outline on the sofa. "Mind if I join you?" John asked with a yawn.

"Not at all, by all means." Mycroft reached out a hand and gently guided John on top of him. John lied down on Mycroft, chest to chest. He rested his head under Mycroft's chin.

"Do you sleep in your office often?" John asked letting out a heavy sigh.

"All too often." Mycroft ran a long finger gently down John's arm. John inhaled deeply, taking in Mycroft's scent, which had changed several times over the last two months. As always it was exotic yet familiar, intoxicating but soothing, distinct yet subtle. There was always a slight undertone of citrus. Bergamot.

Mycroft hummed slightly as he ran a hand down John's spine. "Haji Ayub Afridi." Mycroft said with great ease.

"Who's what now?" John said lifting up slightly. Mycroft splayed his hand on John's back.

"He was a Pakistani drug lord; founder of the Afghan heroin trade."

"Yeah?" John asked placing a hand on Mycroft's chest and resting his chin on it. "Moran's looking to replace him?"

"Already has. He died in 2009, the same time Moran was on tour."

"Greg turned out to be a good call after all." John sighed.

"In one short meeting, he has given us numerous leads." John felt Mycroft shift slightly under him.

"Why didn't we interrogate him earlier?" John felt a slight pang of panic for asking so rudely.

"Didn't know who he had his loyalties with." Mycroft shifted more.

"Am I too heavy?" John asked.

"No. Not all, I'm only getting more comfortable." Mycroft placed both hands on John's back. "Gregory Lestrade did seem to defend Moran's actions on several occasions. I was beginning to wonder how involved he was with the man."

"Was he? You know… involved?" John asked nervously.

"No. Not it all it seems." John felt Mycroft's foot gently stroke his own. John felt warmth from this simple action.

"I've met Moran twice, perhaps only spoke with him five minutes total, and I already know more about him than I do about you."

"And why would you ever want to know anything about me?" Mycroft asked with a light chuckle. "Well, do tell me what you know, and I'll fill in the gaps." Mycroft let out a small sigh.

"Well… you're ten years Sherlock's senior."

"Seven." Mycroft corrected.

"But… you left for uni when Sherlock was-"

"Eight, I know."

"That would make you… fifteen. God, I couldn't even imagine." John thought of Sherlock leaving for uni. It seemed centuries away. John let out a small laugh. "Well… that goes to show how much I know about you. You're so enigmatic."

"I'm afraid it is in the job description."

"Mycroft… why did you have me break it off with Greg?" Mycroft opened his mouth to speak and John stopped him. "Don't say it was to get to Moran. It has been months and we have yet to set up a meeting with him." John sighed. "You lied to me, didn't you?"

"You can't in good conscience tell me that your relationship with Gregory Lestrade was a healthy one."

"Yeah, but that shouldn't matter to you. Sentiment?" John chuckled softly.

"He was far too old for you. You really should be with someone closer to your own age."

"Had anyone in mind?"

"Why actually. I did have someone in mind."

"Is he… two years my senior? Reddish brown hair? Carries a brolly round no matter the weather?"

"You know him then?" Mycroft laughed. He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "No, John, it would never work."

John was extremely confounded. "Wait. Then... but…" He stammered. "The kissing?"

"You and I both know our personalities would clash. Not to mention the positioning." John looked down at how they were positioned. "John, believe it or not, you're a top."

"Top?" John furrowed his brow.

"Mull it over a moment." Mycroft said shortly. John's brain hummed like a dot matrix printer.

"You mean… _sex_?" John said awkwardly.

"You can't have a successful relationship with two dominant males I'm afraid."

"I didn't peg you as a philosopher." Mycroft let out a short laugh. "Who cares who is dominant?"

"You do."

"No… you do." John corrected. "Oh my God… This is what Sherlock meant." John had an epiphany. "I swear, do you two collaborate? Don't you have anything better to do with your spare time?"

"What?" Mycroft asked sincerely confused.

"Doesn't like men _that_ way."

"In what way?" Mycroft's voice wavered slightly.

"You don't want to get fucked." John said with a laugh.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft said placing his hands against John's chest and pushing him up. John sat up onto his knees which were between Mycroft's legs.

"You know it's fucking bullocks."

"I-"

"Nah… Fuck Mycroft!" John said with anger. "You two think your little deductions are infallible."

"I don't understand." Mycroft shifted up on to his elbows.

"Course you don't. You're both so fucking spectacularly ignorant. Especially when it comes to human feelings and emotions." John leaned forward and placed a hand on the arm of the sofa above Mycroft's head and hovered over Mycroft's face. He flicked Mycroft's forehead with his middle finger. "Big ol' brain of yours. Thinks it knows everything."

"John… I can't possibly… I just can't…"

"And I'd never make you. God, don't you understand?" John could barely see Mycroft's frightened face in the darkness. "You Holmes' are so busy observing, you don't see."

"Um… I'm afraid I don't follow." Mycroft started shaking. John leaned back away from Mycroft's face.

"Been round Sherlock long enough to know how you two think. How could you of all people make such a huge mistake: theorizing before you have any solid data?" John could almost smell Mycroft's fear. He was unsure for the first time in his life. It must have been terrifying, perhaps exhilarating as well. Not knowing how this was going to end. He'd relied too heavily on the power of deduction for far too long.

"John, please, hear me out. I know what Gregory did to you was terrible, but don't make the same mistake. I only wanted… to take it slow! Show you more to this lifestyle… It's not all disease and sex like some… most make it out to be. For God's sake, people… the homosexuals… they have relationships, good ones at that."

"Mycroft, why do you have to be so stubborn?" John groaned throwing his head back.

"I! I! I don't want to be buggered!" Mycroft shouted indignantly.

"I'm not looking to rape you!" John laughed inappropriately.

"Well… I won't… do it willingly!" Mycroft stammered nervously.

"I wasn't looking to do it all!" John snorted.

"God… I'm so confused." Mycroft said with a whimper.

"That's me Mr. Enigma. Mr. E for short." John chuckled. "Mystery? Come on Mycroft." John nudged Mycroft's shoulder lightly. Mycroft was whimpering lightly like a small puppy. John smirked.

_I do believe I just mind fucked the British Government._

"Data Mycroft, you got one little plot point. How do you know it's not an outlier?"

"One plot point?" Mycroft asked with a small squeak at the end.

"I got it hard up the arse, one time. One time, Mycroft. How do you know I'm not willing to do it again? See how it is supposed to feel. What makes you think I'd want to dominate you?"

"You seek to befriend people without the trappings of sexuality. You are kind, caring, confident, understanding. You have the firm handshake of a man who is comfortable in his own skin although he knows his faults. You don't demand respect, you earn it. You would never seduce a person, but rather you explore their mind to discover if a relationship can be formed." Mycroft took in a deep breath. "When the time comes that the submissive offers up their services you are the first to ask if it is what they truly desire. You are the first to mention safety and volunteer up your resources. You are willing to pass on knowledge with little to no reward, if only for the satisfaction of helping the person define their own path. You would never change a person into what you want but rather you revel in the opportunity to show them what they can become." Mycroft let out a sigh. "You are everything Gregory Lestrade isn't. If you would have taken him, you two would still be together. My apologies that I _assumed_ you were a dominant male. When it is so obvious you are one." John sat in a shocked silence at the barrage of information and deductions that Mycroft had just thrown at him.

"Mycroft, you're stereotyping." John said plainly.

"I… I am most certainly not!"

"Really?" John leaned down close. "If I'm everything you say I am. Then what's preventing me from being on bottom?" It was Mycroft's turn to have his brain buzz like a dot matrix printer. Moving excruciatingly slow and low on toner.

"I… don't… see any reason… not…" Mycroft said unsure. "In fact… it would only better suit your profile." Mycroft's face had evident signs of concern and doubt. "I merely assumed… I guessed… I should never guess." John laughed. "May I think about it?" Mycroft asked unsure.

"Sleep on it?" John chuckled.

"I just need some time. I have never had someone throw me through such a loop. I wasn't expecting it…" Mycroft took in a deep breath. "You know how completely incompatible we are. You deserve a proper relationship." Mycroft shook his head.

"We are two consenting adults." John offered.

"Oh, John, don't be an idiot. One doesn't enter adulthood until age twenty-five; some even later. Our front-lobes aren't even fully developed. I must take extraordinary precautions in decision making because I lack the maturity to make hurried decisions and have them turn out in my favour."

"Perhaps you think too much." John shrugged.

"Never." Mycroft sneered. "For God's sake we're still hormonally imbalanced. Of course this will end badly. Why would you ever suggest such a thing?"

"I don't know! I only recently found out I liked guys after years and years of oppression. I want some sort of normalcy. Do stuff without thinking, think with my prick. You know? How guys are supposed to behave."

"Normalcy? With me? Are you mad?" Mycroft asked seriously.

"I feel comfortable with you, non-pressured. You obviously like me. I don't know. I was… unh." John ended with a groan. "I've made a huge error in judgement. Of course you don't _like_ me. Again Sherlock was right. I'm just a huge idiot!" John shouted.

"I'm certain I 'like' you. How much? That remains to be seen. Until then, it isn't in our best interests to proceed without giving this some serious and proper thought. It could take months if not years to truly find the answer and I don't believe you're willing to wait that amount of time, nor would it be fair to you." John covered his face with his hands and groaned loudly.

"Unh, can't we just have sex and build our relationship later?" John moaned.

"No!" Mycroft shouted. "Believe it or not, I'm not made of ice. I have feelings."

"Oh really? Caring is not an advantage? Direct quote, from your lips." John said poking Mycroft in the lips.

"I meant with sex. I have strong emotional ties with it and if you cannot respect that, then you can kindly get off of me." John's head started to pound once more. This conversation was leading nowhere fast.

"Are you sure?" John asked rather annoyed.

"Am I sure what?"

"That you don't want to just do it right here, right now? Avoid ourselves the trouble of years and years of sexual tension, avoiding the inevitable. What if it isn't any good? You've just wasted your life when you could have been pursuing someone else." John said with quite a bit of sass, and he was quite unsure where it came from. "No pressure, just saying, are you sure?"

"Of course I'm not sure! Your knee is in my groin and I have a half hard-on. My body is betraying me and I don't like it one bit. Now don't say I'm not being _pressured."_ Mycroft sneered. John snorted. "It isn't funny John Watson." John gave him a look of disbelief with a small grin on his face.

"Really?"

"Oh don't give me that. I said I needed time to think." Mycroft pursed his lips.

"And?"

"Bugger all." Mycroft spat. "You know if I hate it, I'll never forgive you."

"And if you like it?" John asked flirtatiously.

"I'll never forgive you." John laughed heartily.

"I can live with that."

"Oh I bet you could." Mycroft sat up slightly. The sun was starting to rise and the room was becoming dimly lit. John could see Mycroft looking John over with his judgemental gaze. He seemed fixated on John's chest, looking it over. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, frowned, and looked away. "I gather you take to carrying a condom in your wallet?" Mycroft asked.

"Oh… yeah." John reached into his pocket, withdrew his wallet, and pulled out a condom packet. Mycroft reached out for it.

"This will never do."

"Expired?" John asked surprised.

"It is a heterosexual condom." Mycroft said looking at John as if he was a complete idiot.

"Whoa… hold on… There's a difference?"

"Yes and they should really teach it in sexual education classes. However they don't exactly agree with homosexuality on the whole. They only seem to mention how it inevitability leads to contracting HIV." Mycroft sneered. "And you wonder why the mass public hates us so?"

"I don't wonder it for a moment, it is oh so obvious."

"How so?" Mycroft asked with a furrowed brow.

"Gay, it means to be happy. Men that've got wives aren't very gay now are they? Yeah… bad joke I know."

"Actually it was quite good." Mycroft smiled. "There isn't much difference in condoms. A heterosexual couple can use whichever they like. However homosexuals are more limited. Condoms with spermicide contain nonoxynol-9 which can cause severe irritation, itching, and burning. They are not to be used for anal sex." Mycroft said throwing the packet over his shoulder.

"No condom then?" John asked sheepishly.

"On my Italian leather sofa? Never." Mycroft reached into his own pocketbook and withdrew a condom. "Have you ever seen a gay pornography?"

"One." John answered quite honestly. "You?"

"On occasion." Mycroft admitted. "You can tell the quality and production value of a pornography by the colour of condom they use." John lifted an eyebrow quizzically. "Pink." John's heart stopped momentarily.

_Are we really going through with this… or is this some sort of sick joke?_


	20. Chapter 20

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he entered the sitting room. "You should be in school!"

Sherlock was sitting on the floor his head tilted back, staring at the blank television screen. Sherlock turned his head slightly and looked back at John with cold indifference.

"One day is excusable but you haven't been to class in three days. You're going to fall behind!" John chided. "God Sherlock, don't you care what will happen? They're not likely to let you repeat, you're going to have to be put into a special education classroom. Is that what you want? Don't you care?" Sherlock gave a solitary breathless laugh.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Why what?" John said crossing his arms.

"Why, John. Should I care?" Sherlock asked with a low and light chuckle. "It has already been decided for me. I haven't any control in the matter."

"What has?" John asked confused.

"Don't be daft." Sherlock sneered. "I know what goes on behind closed doors." Sherlock's upper lip snarled. "Mycroft has already been in contact with my school's SEN coordinator. They've even discussed transferring me to another school." Sherlock stopped to grind his teeth. His back stiffened and his nostrils flared as he breathed. "One better suited for my _needs."_

"Sherlock." John said softly. He unfolded his arms and took a few steps towards Sherlock. Sherlock shot him a glare.

"Don't pretend like you didn't know." Sherlock said coldly, turning away to stare at the fireplace.

"I wasn't aware it had gone as far as meeting with the SENCO. Listen Sherlock-"

"Don't tell me how much of a good thing this could be for me!" Sherlock shouted, shaking with frustration. "I don't care what others think of me. The constant barrage of insults from my peers; the consistent verbal abuse. Yes. I'm fully aware being segregated from the mainstream for the majority of school hours would put a larger target on my back." Sherlock breathed heavily. "I can take every bit of it and jam it down their throats."

"Sherlock, children can be so cruel, especially teenage boys. It would only make sense-"

"To have me isolated? Perhaps place me behind glass and have the children press their faces up against it and bang on it with their fists to see if they can elicit a response. Make me dance for their entertainment." Sherlock shook his head. "There isn't a _point_ in either option."

"You need to finish your education Sherlock. You're meant for… so much more. If you could just get through this rough patch."

" _Rough patch_?" Sherlock repeated with a scoff. "My whole education has been a 'rough patch'."

"You haven't been given the attention you need!"

"I've had plenty of attention." Sherlock spat. "I just want to go back to being a shadow on the wall. I don't _need_ any more attention." Sherlock hissed as he took in a deep breath.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Obviously something is going on. Something has happened that you're not telling me. You used to go to class. You did your coursework, got absolutely outstanding marks on all your exams. Now you are failing every subject, you refuse to do any school work, and now you won't even be bothered to show up!" John was trying to keep a calm appearance but the whole topic was striking a nerve.

_You're a bloody genius! You're squandering such great talent!_

Sherlock clenched his jaw tight and took in a deep breath through his nose. A single tear rolled down his cheek. "They know." Sherlock said bluntly. He had a thousand yard stare. A deafening silence fell upon the room.

"That… you're…"

"Gay." Sherlock finished. His jaw quivered slightly. John could tell he was holding back crying. John felt every ounce of Sherlock's pain. It hurt to see him so upset.

"Sherlock…"

"Don't say you understand!" Sherlock shouted and shot up off the floor and took five long strides to John and loomed over him, staring directly into his eyes. "You couldn't possibly understand." He spat. Sherlock instantly regained his composure, his lips only slightly bent into a frown; yet tears freely rolled down Sherlock's stoic face. He looked at John with such coldness.

He stepped back and scanned John's face.

"You can stop pretending you know." Sherlock said lifting his eyebrows.

"Pretending…" John repeated breathlessly.

"You can stop pretending." Sherlock echoed. "I-I already know. You don't have to pretend any more."

"Know… what?" John asked with concern.

"The case." Sherlock's voice wavered. "I know… you talk about it behind my back. You don't have to pretend to be with Mycroft any longer. I know…" Sherlock said with a small crack in his voice. He sniffled slightly.

"Oh Sherlock." John said with a sigh.

"You don't have to pretend for my sake." Sherlock whimpered.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry…" John felt a terrible guilt consume him as Sherlock sucked back his tears.

"But, it's done, it's over. I know your game, you can stop now. I… I…" Sherlock turned away.

"Sherlock I don't know what to say." John was near tears himself. John went to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock lunged and grabbed John by the shirt, twisting his hands into the fabric.

"You don't have to pretend!" He shouted through tears. "It's not real! I know it isn't! So stop it!" John looked at Sherlock with fear and uncertainty in his eyes. Sherlock let go of his shirt. John shook his head. His eyes were watering.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock." John back away. He kept shaking his head and took small steps back towards the door. He placed his hand on the door's handle. "Sherlock, I'm afraid, it's no longer pretend."

Sherlock's face went blank. His features became apathetic. "Out." Sherlock said with a low rumble.

"Sherlock, I'm-"

" _Get, out."_ Sherlock said firmly, with his hands clenched into fists. "Leave at once." Sherlock's nostrils flared. "I will not be in the company of my brother's _whore_." Sherlock scowled.

"Yeah, well fuck you. Fuck you very much Sherlock Holmes." John returned his scowl. "How come you can't be happy for me? You know, for once." John clenched his jaw tight and shook his head. "You know, your brother isn't the bitch you make him out to be."

"Oh he is indeed very much the bitch I say he is." Sherlock sneered.

"You're just jealous." John said with a slight snicker.

"Oh jealous of what? My brother? He's just a self-absorbed prick. He's only interested in the furthering of his career. He'll dispose of you like a used rubber when he's through with you." John balled up his fists and pressed his fingertips into his palms. He winced.

"You know… just for your information. He's the best lover I've ever had."

Sherlock started to growl like a feral cat. He was shaking with anger.

"He took his time with me." John said as his knees shook. "He… cares Sherlock. Y-you just rub up against anything that moves and don't give a flying fuck what the person feels. You are the definition of bloody socio-path."

"Mycroft doesn't-"

"Oh don't start with me. You're always turning this on me. You can't possibly be at any fault! Isn't that right? You are the shallowest person I know and a complete narcissist. Not to mention a pathological liar."

"I-" Sherlock started.

"And don't pretend like I don't know about you sleeping around."

"What!" Sherlock shouted in disbelief.

"The boy Sherlock, at the door." John shook his head. "You think for a moment Mrs. Hudson would keep that juicy bit of gossip to herself?" John let out a scoff. "He's been coming round here, weeks now. Leaving little presents. Only coming up when I'm not home." John's lip twitched into a snarl. "Same time you were trying to get into my pants."

"Trying." Sherlock scoffed.

"I regret ever having met you." John said through clenched teeth. "Saying you _love me_ , you can't possibly love me. You couldn't possibly love anything." John sneered. He pulled the door open fully and stepped out. He slammed the door shut and stormed down the stairs angrily.

His heart sank in his chest when heard a loud gunshot crack through the air. He felt all of his blood turn to ice.

Then he heard another and another. His deepest fear turned into confusion then anger. He stormed back up the stairs and into the flat to see Sherlock, with a gun pointed at the smiley face on the wall that he had been using as a dart board.

"What the hell are you doing!?" John shouted not believing his eyes.

"Idiot." Sherlock mumbled.

"What?"

"Idiot!" Sherlock shouted. He shot the wall again "Idiot!" he swung his arm behind his back and shot once more from the back of his hip. "Idiot!" He passed the gun off to John who immediately pulled out the magazine and threw it on the ground. Sherlock walked over to the wall and admired his handy-work

"I'm an idiot! So you take it out on the wall?"

"Oh, the wall had it coming." Sherlock said plainly, running his finger along the smile. "Besides, you would have never come back if you hadn't thought I'd taken my life. You do love me, admit it." Sherlock grinned.

"I… Sherlock! What the fuck?" John shouted. "You… I don't…"

"Of course your ordinary mind wouldn't understand." Sherlock turned to John, he placed his hands behind his back and strolled the floor with an air of superiority. "Oh John, I envy you so much."

"You… envy me?" John asked confused.

"Your mind. It's so placid. Straightforward. Barely used."

"Oi, listen-" John started.

"No. My turn, you have a seat." Sherlock motioned to John's seat. "You'll need it shortly." John let out a heavy sigh, walked round to the front of his chair and fell on to it with a thud.

"There! You have my bloody attention." John sneered.

"Now the boy, the one you haven't met. What has Mrs. Hudson told you of him?" Sherlock asked looking off into the air, pacing the floor in front of John.

"He's… short, from your school, brings by books mostly." John shrugged. He was uncertain what Sherlock was getting at. "Says he comes up here when you're all alone." John glared at Sherlock.

"Yes. He does." Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Oh you're such a-."

"Oh John, shut up!" Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows; his smirk turned into a frown. "What else did Mrs. Hudson tell you about the boy?"

"I don't know!" John shouted.

"Of his accent? His hair? His eyes John." Sherlock pointed to his own eyes trying to make a point. "Of course the boy has been able to cover up his off kilter dialect, claiming he's from Manchester. His hair, dark brown. His eyes, dark, dark brown. Near black."

"The Irish boy?" John asked in breathless disbelief.

"Aye." Sherlock said.

"But… what's… what was he doing? What are you doing with him alone?"

"That fateful day you broke it off with Lestrade. Mycroft knew he'd run to Moran first to blame him for his failed relationship. He sent his pet out as a spy; with every intention of pursing you for one of his own." Sherlock let out a sigh. "He was surprised to find you were living with a young gentleman. He changed his tactics John."

John looked at Sherlock in awe.

"Moran doesn't make exceptions, they disprove the rule. I'm sorry John but I'm far more attractive to Moran than you'll ever be. When word of my relations to Mycroft Holmes reached Moran's ears, he likely came in his pants. I've known the Irish boy for months and now it has all become quite clear what Moran is intending."

"The Catcher in the Rye?" John asked.

"Yes I've researched the book, read it at least three times. Trying to gather meaning from it. You said it should speak to me. Teenage angst, ostracism. I'm close to the edge of a cliff, running and not looking where I'm going. I need a catcher in the rye, to snatch me up." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "And Jim, isn't he just sweet?"

"Jim?" John asked.

"Oh don't be stupid John, the Irish boy. Jim Moriarity. He's been lurking around the shadows of CLS biding his time. He's been there longer than I have."

"Moran… uses this Jim boy… to lure boys?"

"Exactly!" Sherlock shouted excitedly.

"It's not something to cheer about Sherlock, it's sick! He gains little boys' trust with someone their age and reels them in, then takes them away forever. To be sold! Bartered with. You've put yourself in grave danger associating yourself with the boy."

"I always knew there was something off about him. I had to keep him close. Keep your enemies close-"

"And alienate all your friends in the process. Sherlock, you can't!" John thought a moment. "He's been up here, in the flat! He knows we took that money. He's probably been sniffing around for it. God Sherlock! They know where we live, what we did! Sherlock!" John shouted. "We need to leave! Leave Baker Street, London, England, the entire country, leave it all behind, get new names, enter a witness protection program-"

"Grow moustaches, open a bakery, and live happily ever after in marital bliss?"

"Well I thought you'd rather prefer a farm with bees." Sherlock laughed lightly. "I'm serious though! We're dead men. He's known this entire time!"

"We're not dead now are we?"

"No. Not yet." John said with a gulp. "You had Moran's spy in your midst this entire time and you didn't even t-" John stopped. His heart beat loudly in his chest. "How'd they know you were gay? At your school Sherlock?"

"Relax, they don't know about you and me." Sherlock said with a loud sigh.

"I didn't mean that Sherlock." John said through gritted teeth. "You… you haven't been?"

"Haven't been what?" Sherlock asked.

"You have! I was right!" John felt the anger rising in him again. "Why? It makes no bloody sense."

"I was merely playing the game." Sherlock turned away.

"This isn't a game Sherlock."

"It isn't like we had sex!"

"Oh I know all too well how you 'fool around'." John shook his head. "Might as well be shagging him."

"It is a red herring John. Surely you must know all about make-believe relationships." John growled. "I was leading him to believe I trusted him, that I would go away with him when the time comes."

"Leading him along with your tongue down his throat?" John asked in disgust.

"Kissing doesn't elicit the same physiological response for me as it does for you. I am emotionally distant, yet entirely convincing when I need to be."

"Yeah, don't I know it?" John asked himself. "So were you seeing him the other night? Is that the reason you came in late? Crashed on the sofa for hours?"

"After Lestrade confirmed my suspicions. I had to."

"You didn't have to go alone. I could have helped! We could have sent in the police. Held him for questioning. Instead you go running off into this alone!" John was seething with rage. "How could you Sherlock?"

"I could ask the same John."

"You know. Spending the night with your brother is nothing in comparison to the shit you've pulled."

"We take away Jim now and the whole operation is a failure!" Sherlock shouted. "He's just a pawn in the great game. We can use him to get to Moran, don't you see?"

"Oh I see plenty." John said placing both hands on the arms of his chair. He hoisted himself up.

"I did go to school today." Sherlock sighed.

"For all of ten minutes?" John asked.

"They all knew about Jim and me. The moment I entered the school it felt as if the entire school was glaring at me. Jim said a boy had seen us snogging in the stairwell." John groaned. "It was a blatant lie, there wasn't a soul around. Jim let the information leak. They're planning an attack John, Moran and Moriarty. I am to be kidnapped. I will willingly be taken to Dartmoor because I'm at my breaking point and Moran knows it."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes.

"You weren't sick yesterday." John said plainly. Sherlock looked at John with sorrowful eyes.

"I had to John. It was the only way to convince-"

"Didn't have to, you chose to. You liked it. You were itching to leave Lestrade's flat. You could have waited to meet with the Irish boy, but you needed your fix." John snarled. "What is it then? Heroin?"

"Cocaine." Sherlock said rubbing the inside of his elbow.

"How could you Sherlock?"

"I ask you the same question John!" Sherlock shouted. "How could you? How could you?" Sherlock repeated. "You got doped up on morphine and fucked my brother. How could you?"

John looked at Sherlock through half-lidded eyes.

"Oh my apologies. He fucked you." Sherlock threw his arms into the air. "You've proven I'm mortal! My God John! How could I ever make such a grave error?"

"You will never see yourself as being at fault." John shook his head. "You're screwing around with a terrorist's sex slave, shooting up cocaine, and planning on running away with them?"

"Yes." Sherlock said as if John was an absolute idiot for not seeing it his way.

"And I'm supposed to just sit back and let you? You may think this is some sort of great game; that you're not affected by it. Sherlock you need to take a good long look at yourself. You haven't been eating, sleeping, you were crying not ten minutes ago because your classmates were picking on you. You never had that problem before. This man is trying to break you down and he is succeeding."

"I am perfectly in control of the situation. I am only trying to solve the case."

"No, you're looking for a thrill ride. Once Moran is imprisoned then you'll just look for something else, just as dangerous if not more."

"John must you be so mundane?"

"I'm involved in this as much as you are! I thought we work in the background. Not the front-lines. You said you avoid confrontations."

"Unless absolutely necessary. John, I can see no other way." John pulled out his mobile, unlocked it, and typed one word and pressed send. "A text, to Mycroft, one word. Give it to me." Sherlock pursed his lips. John lifted his eyebrows and tossed Sherlock the phone. Sherlock went to unlock it. He tried it again. Three attempts remaining. Sherlock looked at the phone in his hands. Dumbfounded.

"Oh, this is just great." John laughed a low throat laugh. "You! You can't figure it out?" John had on a smug grin.

"I haven't the time." Sherlock said throwing the phone back to John. "I must make my leave. A-" Sherlock was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Mr. Holmes." A tall man in a suit stepped inside.

"Sherlock." John said nervously.

"Unarmed, recently had his nails done, professionally I might add, the shoes of an indoor worker, and the hair line of a man with a desk job. Not to mention the two… no three small dogs. I'd say he was one of Mycroft's."

"No need to get your things sir. You won't be needing them where you're going." The man said stepping forward.

"Oh I know exactly where I'm going." Sherlock stepped forward. "Fine, I'll go silently. Let's." Sherlock said with a false grin, motioning for the door. The man nodded. Another man walked in the door. This man was a stark contrast to the well-manicured escort. His face was battle scarred, his hands were large and strong enough to crush a man's wind-pipe with ease, he had the look of a soldier fresh from war.

"Mr. Holmes, I've heard a lot about you." The man said stopping right in front of Sherlock and looking him over. The well-manicured guard clutched on to Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock started to struggle. "We know your tricks kid, come on, don't make this difficult."

"Fucking American!" Sherlock shouted trying to twist out of the other man's grip. The two men nodded at each other. The American withdrew a small zippered pouch from his coat pocket. He undid the zip and withdrew a hypodermic needle. He swiftly stabbed Sherlock in the shoulder and depressed the plunger.

"See! Was that so difficult?" The guard let go of Sherlock. Sherlock threw a well calculated and deliberate punch at the American's face, hitting him square on the nose. "Fuck!" The man shouted. His nose instantly started dripping blood.

John stood in the middle of the room in shock.

"John!" Sherlock shouted. "The case John, time is running out! John!" The American grabbed Sherlock by the back of his shirt collar and started to drag him out of the room. Sherlock continued drunkenly shouting at John. "Time John!" Sherlock's struggling became more feeble, his motions more sporadic.

Like a snap, he was out cold, being hoisted out of the room by two of Mycroft's men. John looked down at his phone.

_They were posted outside. Mycroft knew this was coming._

John stared at the single word text.

_Moriarty_


	21. Chapter 21

"Ten weeks? Isn't that a bit much?"

"I'm afraid it is the standard." Mycroft said pushing his food around with his fork. They were trying out dating. It wasn't going to well. Every other turn the conversation turned back to Sherlock. The restaurant was completely vacant per Mycroft's request.

John was surprised he didn't already have a dinner date. He had only suggested dinner because he was starving after looking at endless stacks of police records, transcripts, and surveillance footage. He could tell Mycroft was uncharacteristically not hungry, yet he agreed to some time away from the office, to get their minds off things.

Their attention was being diverted from Moran's next move to Sherlock.

"He shot up, maybe twice. I don't see why he has to go through an entire rehab program."

"It was most definitely more than twice. He will have a relapse the moment he returns if he doesn't complete the program." Mycroft put down his fork and went for his wine glass. John put his face in his hands and groaned.

"Why did he have to put himself in the middle of things?"

"He must always be the centre of attention."

"This… isn't the time for sibling rivalry." John rubbed his forehead. "He's in rehab and it is all my fault."

"John, how could it possibly be your fault?"

"I! I never say no! I let him run around the streets of London doing whatever he pleases."

"Know that my brother, no matter the amount of surveillance measures and authority you use on him, will always do as he pleases."

"Then why try?" John said with defeat.

"Because of… sentiment." Mycroft's upper lip twitched. "John, your ties to Sherlock have put this operation in grave peril."

"My ties? He's your brother! Moran would love nothing more than to sell Sherlock into the sexual underworld to prove that you're powerless. Powerless to save your own brother."

"John, this fighting, it isn't proper etiquette for a dinner date." Mycroft said coldly.

"I'm just worried! He's all alone with a bunch of crazed drug addicts. He's just a kid."

"Sherlock is in good hands. They won't let any harm befall him." Mycroft finished off his wine. "John, I've spoken to the directors of the rehabilitation program, they've referred me to a therapist."

"Oh… yes I can understand, this must be hard on you."

"A therapist for you John."

"For me?" John asked indignantly. "Why would-"

"John. This is purely for your health. She can only help matters."

"She?" John asked.

"I thought you would be more comfortable speaking with a female about the tender subject of your sexual orientation."

"Tender subject?"

"You still repress a great deal of your feelings John. It is holding you back from enjoying many of the finer things in life."

"I'm… not repressing my feelings."

"John, having sex with a man isn't the way to come to terms with your homosexuality."

"Uhh." John's brain flat lined.

"At this point in time, you are incapable of having a serious relationship." Mycroft let out a sigh. "And I'm sorry, but we should put a hold on things until you have everything sorted out."

John gave Mycroft a blank look.

"We can't persist if you have sexual interest and feelings for a minor." Mycroft said reaching out for John's hand. Mycroft clutched John's hand firmly. "Especially when it is my brother. It isn't healthy."

"You don't mean because he's your brother, you mean because he's Sherlock." John said angrily. Mycroft let go of John's hand.

"I've set up a meeting. Tomorrow at ten. It is entirely up to you." Mycroft stood up abruptly and went for his umbrella and coat. John felt empty inside as Mycroft promptly left the dining establishment.

_He's only trying to help. How could I let this happen? All of it. Sherlock, Mycroft… Greg._

John's stomach churned. He felt used and where he didn't feel used he felt like a user. He was equally guilty for having such terrible relationships. He needed someone to talk to, to decipher his feels for him.

John checked his watch.

_It isn't even seven._

John knew he wouldn't sleep well that night. His night terrors had come back full force since Sherlock left. He was back to nightly episodes.

The frequency and intensity of them made him anxious around bed time. He wouldn't get to sleep until around four and would wake up running down the staircase in a cold terror. Mrs. Hudson was sympathetic to a point but she was losing sleep as well.

She begged John to try go to bed earlier. She was tired of being up for the day at five in the morning. Mrs. Hudson was on edge as well. She was off her stories and focused on scouring the flat now that she didn't have Sherlock to occupy her time and attention.

Sherlock kept her on her toes, kept her young. Her hip seemed to cause her less pain when Sherlock was about, running a muck. She loved chatting away at him, only if he'd listen to a quarter of what she said. He was incredibly fond of Mrs. Hudson, in his own Sherlock-ian way.

He would become offensive and scare off any potential suitors that would be a poor fit for their landlady. John's thoughts were brought back to a particularly nasty date where the man had tried to get a little too friendly in the stairwell. Sherlock had scared the man off with the old 'Mummy! Who is this man?' bit. It was incredibly effective but usually led to Sherlock getting socked in the arm by Mrs. Hudson.

"Mummy!" She shouted. "If I were your mummy I'dve taught you some manners, young man."

"I don't concern myself with social niceties Mrs. Hudson. Especially not when a strange man is trying to make his way up your blouse. Don't tell me he was only trying to take your measurements." Sherlock let out an aggravated sigh. "Tailors are always the worst. They're entirely too comfortable groping unfamiliar women with their dexterous fingers. He'd have your shirt undone, pressed, and folded before you could bat an eyelash. He could even mend any buttons he had snapped off with his teeth."

"Oh Sherlock, will any man be good enough for me? In your eyes?"

"If one exists, I haven't met him. When I do, I'll make sure to dispose of him properly." Sherlock said brushing off the front of his shirt. "Now, let's discuss your failed relationships over some tea and scones."

"How'd you know I had scones?"

"Blueberry…" Sherlock said off into the air.

It hurt John to think about Sherlock, knowing he was going to suffer for nine more weeks in a facility for low-life drug addicts. Mycroft refused to send him to a comfortable establishment in the countryside for celebrities and the social elite to send their over-privileged black sheep. He said that Sherlock was in need of a harsh reality check not a holiday.

John wasn't allowed to visit Sherlock during his recovery. He was still in de-tox. Mycroft tried to limit the information he shared with John about Sherlock's progress. It was heart breaking to hear of Sherlock's immense pain. They refused to give him any pain relievers or provide any comfort. It was supposed to be better this way, make it a learning experience for him. Torture him thoroughly so he never picked up a needle again.

John picked up his phone and looked through the contacts. He came to the first person he thought would answer and pressed call.

" _Hello?"_

"Mike, you gotta help, my life is in shambles." John begged.

" _Ha, join the club mate."_ Mike laughed on the other end. John smiled.

After a short discussion, the two decided to meet at the tube station on Baker Street.

"John! Long time no see!" Mike beamed.

"God I'm so sorry I've been ignoring you."

"No, no. We've both been far too busy. Life's got us down." Mike said smacking John on the shoulder. "I'm real sorry bout your cousin. On the needle? I would have never thought. He's such a smart kid!"

"I know. He really got caught up in some heavy shit."

"You think this rehab's going to turn him round?"

"Not a fat chance in hell. You know it'll make it worse! I keep telling his brother… my cousin" John said awkwardly. "I tell him it isn't the place for Sherlock, he just won't listen."

"And sending him to a special education school? How's he gonna fare with that?" Mike asked with concern in his voice.

"Better than where he's at now." John groaned. "His stupid freak boyfriend went and told the whole school they were doing… whatever. He was in tears over it. That stuff never gets to him. I just didn't understand. Til he admitted he was using." John shook his head. "It's all too much."

"Yeah, I can understand." Mike gave John a sympathetic smile. "You blow my troubles out of the water. I look like a big ol' sopping wet pussy in comparison."

"No. No. You have every right to be depressed." John said, though he thought otherwise.

_Buck up! She's just a girl man._

"So you're going to go to the therapist?" Mike more suggested than asked.

"It is probably for the best. Can't hurt."

"Oh it's going to hurt. Hurt like hell." Mike laughed. "You've got nineteen years of oppression that needs release."

"I just don't think there's anything really wrong with me in particular, it's just my living situation. Life sucks right now. Maybe if I moved away from London."

"You can't go running away from your problems John."

_Like you do with Molly?_

"They're going to haunt you forever if you don't face em." Mike said giving John another pat on the back. "Go to that psychiatrist; get your emotions out on the table. She can help you patch em up, make a quilt, you'll sleep better, even though you're wrapped up in troubles."

"A trouble quilt?" John laughed.

"Sorry, without Molly I've become quite a deep and rather cheesy person. Had plenty of time to think about myself."

"God… Greg was the same way when he broke it off with his bird."

"Greg?" Mike asked.

"Ex… one of many…" John sighed.

"Which one you on now?"

"Number three." John grumbled.

"Oh that's not bad at all."

"You know Dimmock's gay?" John blurted out suddenly.

"Really? God! My gaydar is so off… I should stop trying. Really? I thought he fancied Molly! I was going to kill him on several occasions!"

"I know!" John felt like the gossip queen of the century. "What's more is his date for the night had ditched him at some crazy party."

"That's terrible." Mike shook his head. "I haven't seen him in ages."

"What… what do you mean?" John asked.

"We was supposed to meet up for his birthday. We were gonna sneak him into the clubs, have a good time."

"Sneak him in?" John asked.

"Yeah, his parents found his ID. They were livid! Partly the reason I haven't seen him in ages. Been in real deep trouble."

"He lives with his parents?" John asked.

"John… Dimmock's Sherlock's age. Didn't you know?"

"Oh fuck… Mike…" John grasped Mike's shoulder and felt bile in the back of his throat. "The party Mike… That was months ago. Oh my God… he's gone Mike… really gone."

"What are you going on about?"

"His parents? How well do you know them?" John asked pulling out a pen.

"Erm… all right? I mean we've met a few times." John grabbed Mike's hand and started scribbling down a number.

"You go tell them to call this number."

"John, what's the matter?" Mike asked highly concerned.

"They'll tell you Michael is missing, possibly for months. They need to go in for questioning. I'm so sorry Mike." John shook his head.

"John." Mike looked at him with fear. "How do you know this?"

"The less you ask the better." John sighed. "Go to them Mike, tell them. Perhaps he can still be tracked down. That number will help them." Mike looked at the back of his hand.

"John… I don't know what to say."

"Just go."

_Time is running out._


	22. Chapter 22

"John, tell me about yourself."

_Classic, I'm trying to ease you into a conversation by making you answer the worst question in history 'what makes you you?'._

"Um… I'm a student. At Barts… here in London." John said shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He had expected to be seated in a cliché leather psychiatrist chair. This was far more uncomfortable sitting face to face with a woman who was passing judgement on him, scribbling notes on her pad. John leaned forward slightly to glance down at what she had written.

"I have trust issues?" John asked.

"And you can read upside-down." She smiled gently. "Why did you come here today?"

"Mycroft… he suggested it."

"And who is Mycroft."

"You know him… he set up the appointment." John said confused.

"I mean, who is Mycroft, to you?"

"Uhh." John stalled. "My…" John paused and thought. "Boyfriend?" John said uncomfortably.

"You don't seem certain."

"I'm not." John gulped. "We're kind of in a stalemate I suppose."

"And why do you believe you're in a stand-still in your relationship?"

"He says it's because of his brother."

"Do you believe so as well?" She asked scratching something down, covering it up with her hand.

"Um… actually… yeah, probably." She started writing something else down and John leaned forward.

"Sit back John, I assure you I'm not writing anything nasty. This is just for my records."

"Can't you… record your sessions?"

"Mr. Holmes requested our sessions not be taped. You can say anything in here with confidence that it will not leave this room. Anything at all." She looked at John. "I take it you don't find this reassuring?"

John grimaced. He felt nothing she could do would be reassuring.

"Tell me about Sherlock Holmes; your relationship with him."

"Well it's complicated." John started.

"How so?"

"I suppose it all started when I first met him. It was at a night club. He was in the shadows. He'd occasionally catch my eye and look away. He was following me that night. Analysing me, like he always does, making his deductions. For some reason I caught his attention, stood out in the crowd, though I don't know why." John let out a sigh. "He waited outside the loo when I went to take a… when I went to use the facilities." John coughed. "I bumped into him and…" John stopped.

"And what?"

"I… just… threw myself at him." She nodded. "I'd never thrown myself at anyone before. Let alone a bloke. I hadn't even known I had those feelings. I mean… maybe there were some hints in my childhood… maybe I thought at one point in time… Yeah…"

"When you had those feelings, how did you act upon them? When you were younger?"

"I just pushed them down, deep inside. My parents would have sent me away to camp if I hadn't. My sister was… is gay… she got sent to one of those camps. I was just scared. I still am." John sighed. "I have night terrors. They've only gotten worse since Sherlock left."

"When did these night terrors begin?"

"Right after my mum died, this past summer, cancer." John felt a lump in his throat, he swallowed hard. "Though I started having bad dreams after my dad passed. It was real sudden, heart attack."

"How did your sister take their passing?"

"She took it real hard. Didn't leave the side of my dad's casket during the wake. She was shooed away from my mum's funeral."

"Why?" The therapist put down her pen and looked at John with concern.

"She was drunk. Real drunk. She doesn't even remember showing up." John looked down at his hands. "She's been drinking a lot. I haven't heard from her in months."

"Does she know about your homosexual tendencies?"

"Tendencies?" John asked.

"John. I don't believe at this time, you have fully come to terms with your sexual identity."

"What is that supposed to mean? I've had bloody anal sex with a multitude of men and somehow I'm NOT gay? But when I say I'm not gay, everyone goes 'oh yeah you are, you're just hiding your emotions'." John put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth. "Fine! I'm not gay!"

"I'm not saying you are or aren't. You need to decide that for yourself."

"No! I don't! Because apparently sexual orientation is in the eye of the beholder. You can go saying I'm not really gay because I can't commit to a serious relationship and another person can say I'm gay because I won't admit that I do want a serious relationship with a man. It doesn't matter what I say! Gay's a label! Fuck labels." John said throwing his arms in the air. "I'm a paedophile, a cheater, a slut, a toy. I'm a lover, a fighter, a paperback writer. The whole world can think poorly of me for all I care."

"John, what do you want for yourself?"

"To be happy!" John shouted. "Don't I have the right?"

"And what would make you happy?"

"If Greg was still my best friend, if he'd never touched me and used me. If Sherlock was my age, would stop being so God damn reckless and would stop trying to ruin his future. If Mycroft would get off my back about our relationship. If my parents would come back from the dead. If my sister would get back together with Clara and stop hitting the bottle. If I could find this bastard Moran and shoot him myself for making my life a living hell. I'd like to see that Moriarty boy suffer for what he's done to Sherlock." John felt his blood boil with rage. The room fell silent. The therapist looked at John for a while. Analysing.

"Here." She said passing John a notepad and pencil. "Write what you just said down, in a list. Add more if you would like. It doesn't matter the order, whatever comes to you first." John took the pad and pencil and started writing down everything. He took up a whole page. He let out a sigh. "Now strike through all of the things on your list that are impossible, that can't happen, no matter what." John drew a strike through all of the past experiences he couldn't change.

_My parents aren't coming back, nothing will change the fact I had sex with Greg, Sherlock will never be my age._

It was giving John a strange feeling admitting these things. Somehow writing it out made it seem more emotionally distant, like checking off items on a grocery list.

"Now take what remains and sort them into long term and short term goals."

"They're all long term goals." John said looking down the list.

"Hm. Nothing you would like in the short term?" She jotted something down.

"To get the hell out of this office?" John suggested. The therapist laughed.

"We'll be done shortly. All right. Prioritize what's left on the list by how long it will take to achieve those goals. Starting with the shortest amount of time, to the longest." John thought hard.

_How long is it going to be to get rid of Moran? Of Moriarty? To get my sister off the bottle?_

John crossed off his sister.

_Impossible._

John pondered over Sherlock's recklessness and his future. John decided that would take the longest. He'd be an old man living among his bees before he calmed down. John smiled at the thought. He placed the _great game_ in the middle. Then he tapped his pencil on the pad of paper.

"What is your most immediate goal?" She asked. John shook his head. "You need to get it out."

"I need…" John started. He coughed. "I need to see Sherlock." John said as he choked back a tear.

"Sherlock Holmes is in rehab. You cannot see him while he is recovering. It would be best for the both of you."

"Sherlock's… my best friend. I need him." John was holding back from crying in the therapist's office.

"Sherlock Holmes is fourteen years old." She stated. "You know this?"

"Of course I do." John nodded.

"He is not of consenting age."

"I know." John croaked. His face was burning from holding back tears.

"John. You want to be in the medical profession; to be a doctor. Someone the public respects and trusts." The therapist let silence fall on the room.

"No." John said plainly.

"No what?"

"I don't want the public's respect and trust."

"John it is in the job's title. Are you prepared to wait for Sherlock?" John lifted an eyebrow quizzically.

"To wait?" John asked.

"Until he turns sixteen; when he is of legal age?" John thought for a moment. "John, what are your feelings for Sherlock?"

"He's like the brother I've never had. He's my best friend. We're two lost boys looking for never neverland."

"What about your feelings for him, sexually?"

John thought back to their first time, a simple drunken hook up. It was blind passion. The second time had left John angry and confused. Sherlock had thrown himself at John in a fit of passion and John hadn't had the strength to pull him away. He had lost his control and the cabinet took a pounding because of it.

The third time, when Sherlock told John he loved him, left John more confused than ever. After Sherlock had taken away all of pain left by Greg, they had gotten carried away. Both had lost control and John had caught himself bare naked on Sherlock, his hands running up and down his soft chest. John looked down at him with sadness and longing.

They were both well aroused. Kissing had that effect on John. Sherlock pleaded underneath John. John had never seen so much want and desire in a person's eyes before. Sherlock was rocking his hips up against John, biting his bottom lip. John's own erection was getting painful. His sensitive and exposed glans stung to the touch.

John was so caught up in the moment he hadn't had the time to think straight. He was only faintly aware of the consequences in the back of his mind. John's desire blinded him. He slid forward and lined up with Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock winced and John pulled back.

"What's wrong?" John asked frightened.

"Sorry… tight… is all." Sherlock said looking away. He dove his hand under the pillow and pulled out a bottle of lubricant. He handed it to John.

"You keep a bottle of lube under your pillow?" John asked.

"I'm a teenager… do you think I don't pleasure myself?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Explains the tissues by your beside." John chuckled. Sherlock guided John's hand to his opening.

"Loosens the sphincter muscles, prevents haemorrhage formation, aids in ease of entry for you."

"Thanks Dr. Sherlock." John laughed. Sherlock helped him apply lubricant to his finger tips and slowly guided him. As the first finger breached Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and took in some deep breaths. "Was quite a bit different our first go." John said sliding his finger around, in and out, he stroked upwards and Sherlock jumped. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Add one more, should be good to go after." John nodded and added his ring finger. It was odd doing this to another person, watching them squirm when all John could feel was the soft and smooth cavity walls on his finger's tips. He was becoming impatient with the act, his cock ached for relief.

John quickly withdrew his fingers and lined up once more. Sherlock's face grimaced as John's cock slowly stretched his entrance. John grunted as he struggled to enter completely. A woman's body is so eager to suck up a cock, yet a man's actively repels and fights against the intrusion, which makes the experience a thousand times more pleasurable. Not only were the walls smoother and tighter, they actively contracted on John's cock making him moan with pleasure.

His first time was too fast paced and he was far too drunk to really enjoy the experience. Unfortunately Sherlock was sober enough to feel the pain of the initial thrust. His breathing had become more laboured and he squirmed to get comfortable. While John was in ecstasy, Sherlock was obviously in a great deal of pain.

"Do you need to stop?" John asked stroking back Sherlock's hair. John looked into his eyes concerned. Sherlock nodded with tears in the corners of his eyes. John withdrew slowly. Sherlock started crying heavily. "Sh, it's ok." John said wrapping Sherlock in his arms. He brought him to a seated position. Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around John's neck and sobbed into his shoulder. "It's all right." John said squeezing Sherlock tight.

He held Sherlock in his arms until the tears stopped, until his eyes closed, and on til morning. John woke up in a panic. The morning sun had risen. He ripped his arms away from Sherlock causing him to wake up abruptly. Sherlock shot up in bed, disoriented.

"John…" He said blinking. "The fuck?" he asked rubbing his eyes.

"God… I'm sorry… Bad dream or something. I can't remember it." John said rubbing his temples.

"Mm." Sherlock hummed. He fell back against the bed and shut his eyes. "Go make breakfast, eggs, bacon, toast, over-medium, crispy, and with jam."

"Right. Scrambled, soggy, and buttered it is."

John's attention snapped to the therapist when she turned the page of her notebook. He blinked.

_How long have I been silent? How often do I just phase out like this?_

"Sorry, what was the question?" John coughed.

"Hm?" The therapist said looking up from her notebook. "Oh right. Your sexual feelings for Sherlock; how would you describe them?"

"Bipolar." John said smacking his lips.

"How so?" She said returning to her writing.

"Sherlock lives on the extremes and that's how my feelings are for him… sexually." John coughed. "I am either extremely… um… attracted or utterly repelled."

"In your day to day lives?"

"No… no. I pretty much see him as family when we're not um… in that position." The therapist hummed at this.

"Tell me more, about your past relationships."

"With girls?"

"With anyone." The therapist shrugged and gave John a kind smile.

"I guess I had only one real serious… well as serious as a relationship could be at sixteen… anyhow. Um. Jeanette was her name. She was taller. Kind of caramel maybe mocha skin. Real thin." John laughed. "Yeah that is pretty much all there was to her. She didn't have a personality. Kind of boring. I think she's a school teacher now… I kind of lost contact."

"What makes her special?"

"Hm?" John hummed.

"You said she was your only 'serious' girlfriend. What made her serious?"

"Well… we dated a few times, fooled around… lost my virginity to her." John coughed into his hand.

"Was it a positive experience for you?"

_She near killed me when she scraped her teeth on the head of my dick when she tried to give me a blow job. Then got offended when I said it hurt. Near stormed out. Then when we were in the middle of the act of penetration I thought I saw her yawn._

"It was all right." John shrugged.

"And this boy named Greg. You said he was a childhood friend. Do you mind sharing what happened between you two?"

"He… he was my neighbour. My entire life… we grew up together. And recently he… um… We dated for a time. He… we lasted about two weeks." John grimaced.

"And in that time, where you two intimate?"

"Uh." John opened his mouth to speak and nothing came out. He nodded.

"Now, was that a positive experience?" John shook his head. "John. Can you tell me what happened?" John gritted his teeth.

"My sister s-she… told him I w-w-was." John stopped and took in a deep breath. "Sorry."

"Take all the time you need."

"She told him I was." John gulped. "Gay and… then he asked if I'd ever bottomed before and he…" John stopped when he started to become more emotional. He took in another breath. "He took me. Forcefully." John choked out.

"How did that make you feel?"

"How do you think that made me feel?" John shouted. "Oh it felt great being pounded into the bed sheets by the only man I've ever trusted." John ran his hands through his hair. "He's supposed to be my protector, he's a police officer for God's sake. He completely betrayed me and yet I have to forgive him because he was going through a rough stage? He just gets to wave away his behaviour. Just be 'not gay' again. Everything goes back to normal?"

"You're hurt that he has decided he's not gay?"

"Yes" John sputtered. He felt the tears start rolling down his cheeks. "All I did in front of him was cry."

"You draw comfort from him."

"Yes." John rubbed the tears out of his eyes. "I still do." He sniffled. "It's left me… confused… again."

"You seek to be friends with him once more?" John nodded.

"He's all I have left from growing up."

"John, I would like to bring your attention back to your list. The last thing that we haven't discussed: your relationship with Mycroft Holmes. You say you want him off your back about it, in what way?"

"In what way what?" John knew what she meant. This time he was trying to get her to say things out loud. Get things off her chest. How does that make her feel?

"What is it about your relationship that Mr. Holmes is concerned about? What issues has he brought up with you?"

"Like I said earlier… Sherlock. I suppose he's the main issue." John sighed.

"Are there other aspects of your relationship that are of concern?"

"He says our personalities clash. That I'm too dominant and so's he."

"What makes you think you're dominant?" She asked writing down on her pad.

"I don't. He said it. I always thought I was pretty neutral." The therapist smiled.

"Perhaps he's concerned that he will repress your personality."

"Is that what he said?"

"Patient confidentiality." She smirked.

"So he sees you too?"

"As of yesterday and that's all I can say. Unless you two are willing to enter couples therapy. Would that interest you?"

"Would it interest him?" John asked.

"This is entirely up to you."

"So you've discussed it."

"John. Enough." She laughed. "Don't try prying information out of me. I'm a closed book. You have to be in my line of work." She placed her pen down. "Now are you wanting Mr. Holmes to get off your back about your relationship because you want to proceed or would you like to end it?"

_Neither._


	23. Chapter 23

"How's your blog going?"

"Yeah, good. Very good." John said with his fingers hovering over the keys of his laptop. Mycroft sat across from him in Sherlock's chair. He was twirling his umbrella's handle, spinning it on the floor.

"You haven't written a word." Mycroft said with a slight grin.

"A blog of all things. Who writes blogs any more? Nobody reads blogs. It's all… facebook and twitter. Photos from Las Vegas! Oh my God I'm married now! Photos! Oh my God I'm divorced that was such a terrible idea. Here's a thousand photos of my dog sleeping, isn't he cute?"

"I thought you didn't have an account." Mycroft chuckled softly.

"I did. I suppose I still do… I haven't figured out to get rid of the bloody thing. My God, Molly Hooper is the worst. She has a cat and… enough said."

"Why read the updates if you don't care?"

"People don't send out birth, wedding, or death announcements any more." John sighed. "It's all on social media."

"So you treat facebook like the obituaries?"

"It is how I found out one my old class-mates died duck hunting."

"Shot?"

"Drown." Mycroft held back a snort.

"Oi!"

"John… I do believe your late friend wasn't too clear on how duck hunting works. You see, the waterfowl sets in the lake and you shoot at it from the land. Not the other way round." Mycroft snickered.

"That's cruel!" John tried not to smile. "The lake was frozen over, he fell in and drown under the ice."

"My apologies John. I didn't mean to sound heartless."

"You are cold as ice Mycroft." Mycroft leaned back and placed his head against the back of the chair. His posture suggested he was incredibly bored.

"How is Dr. Thompson working out for you?"

"She's all right I suppose. Except this blog. Mycroft, nothing happens to me. Not since Sherlock left. The flat is so…"

"Quiet?"

"More like stale. Like there's no life any more." John looked at the skull on the mantel. "Doesn't help half the decorations are deceased."

"You forget I've lived with Sherlock for years. I know the feeling."

"Were you upset when he left? To live here."

"Not initially." Mycroft stopped twirling his umbrella. "Given time, yes."

"Aw, that's kind of sweet." John cooed.

"He can be quite a bother but he fills a room." Mycroft closed his eyes. "He does make life more _interesting_."

"Did he try set fire to all your prized possessions as well?"

"No, he was rather fond of strong acids and bases when he was under my roof." Mycroft grimaced. "He rarely soaked up his spills and when he did he wouldn't neutralize the spot." Mycroft pulled up his sleeve to reveal a scar on his forearm. John winced. John stared at the spot and came to a realization.

"I've… never seen you fully naked. In fact, I have only just now seen your forearm." John laughed.

"You honestly are not missing much." Mycroft raised his eyebrows and dismissed the thought.

"Same here. I'm built like a box." John frowned slightly. "Have you ever seen a sexy box?"

"Can't say that I have." Mycroft smirked.

"That's blog worthy right there. Today Mycroft said he hasn't seen a sexy box before. So exciting." John sighed.

"Must it be exciting? It is merely a diary of your everyday life."

"I'm not a girl. I don't keep a diary."

"I do." John closed his eyes and tried his best to not burst out laughing. "It is simply a book where I write down anything I find interesting. Thoughts, dreams, mysterious happenings. I can look back at it and analyse it later when I'm in a different mindset. It is therapeutic." Mycroft pursed his lips. John was trying to hold back laughing but it wasn't working. He squeaked with giggles.

"Sorry, I'm sorry." John said shutting his laptop. "It's not funny." John smiled. "You write anything about me?"

"Perhaps." Mycroft said with a frown.

"Like what?"

"My thoughts are just that, _mine_. They are to remain private." John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah well I've got a couple thoughts about you. And you can't hear them either." John mocked and stuck his tongue out.

"Oh don't be such a child."

"Whatever, _Greg_." John placed his laptop on the side table and went to stand.

"Perhaps you do need a father figure. It appears I've spoiled you rotten." Mycroft said with a slight sneer.

"Spoiled me rotten?" John furrowed his eyebrows.

"I've taken you out to dinner two nights this week."

"It's called dating Mycroft. It's what boyfriends do!" John headed for the kitchen. "Speaking of dinner, what would you like?" John turned back to see Mycroft grimacing. "What?" John looked at the ceiling. "Oh… right… You've somehow deduced I'm a terrible cook and you're going to have to settle for ramen."

"The food in your cupboards is an abomination. I can't imagine a man living on freeze dried noodles and tins of sardines alone."

"Well I don't mix em together. I have crackers as well." John shrugged.

"The amount of sodium in your diet well exceeds nutritional limitations. You'll certainly have high blood pressure by age thirty."

"And your sweet tooth isn't going to be your down fall? Ever heard of diabetes?"

"My sweet tooth is hardly of any concern." Mycroft shifted in his seat. "Besides, I have it under control now."

"You are genetically predisposed to cavities and have had several root canals already. I'd say it isn't something you have a good handle of."

"You sound eerily similar to my dentist. Are you certain you're entering the right field of work?" Mycroft chuckled softly.

"I could never be a dentist." John laughed. "It's not that the pay isn't good." John shrugged. "I'm just not a sadist." Mycroft laughed.

"Boyfriend." Mycroft said with a sigh. "What would Sherlock say?"

"Mycroft, we went a whole five minutes without mentioning Sherlock." John said opening the cupboards taking inventory. "How is he by the way?"

"Good…" Mycroft said staring at the yellow smiley face on the wall. He titled his head. "John, do you own a hand gun?"

"No." John said looking at Mycroft, then at the wall. "Oh yes. Sherlock had a row with the wall." Mycroft furrowed his brows in concern.

"What did it ever do to him?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know. He just said it had it coming." John shrugged. "My thought is the wallpaper. It is a bit loud."

"Yes this flat could use a gay man's touch." Mycroft said looking around in disgust. "At the very least it doesn't smell like it looks."

"Smell like it looks?" John asked.

"You would expect this flat to smell of must and mould. Old books and taxidermy. Instead it smells of…" Mycroft thought, he sniffed once. "Smells quite a lot like you John."

"I… smell?"

"Of course, doesn't everyone?" Mycroft stood slowly. He stretched his back and grimaced as he twisted. "I suppose another date night won't kill me. Go upstairs change into something more presentable." John looked down at his clothes. He was wearing the red shirt Sherlock had given him and a pair of denim jeans.

John had noticed his clothes making strange disappearances of late. It was the oddest thing. Sometimes it would occur when he was out and about. He'd come home to find a pair of shoes, an old t-shirt, his purple leggings, had completely vanished. John was beginning to worry about the Irish boy and wondered if he had been sneaking in trying to find the hidden suitcase filled with several million Euros, give or take a few five hundred Euro notes that Sherlock had pocketed.

He would have been more concerned if it wasn't for the disappearance of everything Greg had purchased for him. Save the red pants. For whatever reason, they were the only thing left that Greg had touched at one point in time.

Mycroft was so blatantly jealous of Greg and for reasons John couldn't possibly begin to understand. Did he feel threatened?

Sherlock responded similarly when he found out John was dating Greg. He set John's dad's olive green band t-shirt ablaze with an ethanol lamp and called it an accident.

"And what was the t-shirt doing near an open flame anyhow?"

"I was using it to sop up spills." Sherlock huffed.

John missed Sherlock terribly. He kept fixating on what Sherlock had said as he was dragged away.

_Time is running out. Time John! Time! What did he mean? Is Moran going to attack? Who is in danger? How many lives are in peril? Why is Mycroft looking at me like that? Oh fuck I phased out again._

"Sorry. I went to my little mind… attic I suppose."

"Need to clean out the clutter?" Mycroft asked with a small grin.

"Isn't much up there to start. Probably could deal without Gwyneth Paltrow's children's names up there." Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "Who names their kid Apple?" John smirked. "Unh and how about Mycroft? What a terrible name for a child." Mycroft pursed his lips. "What's a croft anyhow? Why take possession of it?"

"It is a small piece of arable land, commonly used as a pasture. It is of Scottish origin." Mycroft said plainly. John clicked his tongue and pouted his lower lip.

"So… not named after Lara Croft then?"

"If I knew who she was, I'm sure I would be offended." Mycroft turned away and went back to Sherlock's chair. "We can't all have such a common name as John, now can we?" Mycroft reached for Sherlock's violin case. He threw open the top and pulled out Sherlock's violin and slid the bow out of its sheath. He brought the violin to his chin and hovered the bow over the strings. "I really do believe Sherlock has abused this poor instrument over the years. If I'm not mistaken… it was a Stradivarius. Now it has become quite like Frankenstein's monster." Mycroft looked down the bridge and neck. He shook his head and clicked his tongue. "Such a shame." He ran a quick C major scale. He frowned and turned the pegs, he plucked a few strings and tuned them once more. "As always, horribly out of tune."

John looked at Mycroft with anticipation. "I didn't know you played."

"I prefer not to. The violin never appealed to me. Always sounded like a screeching cat under the wrong hands." Mycroft stopped a moment. "Speaking of which. Where's… Dumbo was it?"

"Ran off." John sighed looking at the floor. "Haven't seen him since Sherlock left."

"Well. He wasn't the brightest of cats." John shrugged. The flat was truly empty without anything to annoy him and crawl up into his lap while he was trying to watch a match, or paw at his leg, or demand to be petted when John was studying. Sherlock would often go as far as lying on John's textbooks and refused to move until John scratched his head.

Dumb-arse would annoy John on occasion as well but he was mostly Sherlock's cat. The cat was absolutely mental. Sherlock could take a diving leap at the cat and tackle him off the sofa and the cat would purr. He wouldn't even move if Sherlock threw pillows at him. He'd sleep under one if you let him. He wasn't concerned with suffocation.

John walked in once to see Sherlock lifting a pillow off the cat, placing it back on, then lifting it again, only to replace it once more.

"What is the matter with you? You stupid beast! You'll die!" Sherlock yelled. "By God! Run away! Be scared! I'm yelling at you!" Sherlock grabbed the cat around the neck and gave it a small shake. "Why don't you fear me?"

"Sherlock! That's just plain evil! Let go of dumb-arse!"

"I wasn't applying pressure!" Sherlock whined. "He has no survival instincts! How did he live two years on the streets with such severe mental retardation?"

"I don't know, you seemed to have lasted fourteen years, and you haven't smothered yourself with a pillow, yet…"

"That's… just… evil." Sherlock sneered.

Sherlock hated being called ignorant; especially when it was true. He knew the atomic make up of a bee's wing, yet he couldn't remember that the Earth went round the sun or that Pluto was no longer a planet. The worst conversations involved politics.

"India is no longer a colony Sherlock. It hasn't been, not since long before you were born."

"When did that happen?" Sherlock looked shocked.

"Ghandi?" John asked.

"Who?"

That was the moment John had lost faith in humanity. If he had to pinpoint one moment.

Mycroft drew a sound out of the violin that sounded unlike anything Sherlock had ever played. John almost felt sad that the violin didn't sound like it was being played by Sherlock. It had a different tone now. More rich, mature, and slightly hollow. John leaned against the countertop with his hip.

Mycroft played with much vibrato. The sound that filled the air was almost visible. Several of John's senses were sparked by Mycroft's playing. He was good but he lacked the madman genius of Sherlock sawing away at the instrument. Mycroft was Salieri to Sherlock's Mozart.

Sherlock's way of playing was more spastic. His fingers darted all around the board with mad precision while Mycroft was more gentle. His fingers would glide to the next note. He wasn't in a great hurry. He savoured each note. Sherlock merely hit his notes and moved on.

Both were geniuses in their own rights. They were wildly talented just in different ways. Sherlock was a boy of science and discovery while Mycroft preferred the finer things in life. Politics was an art to him.

He had a way with words. He could tame a lion and turn him into a kitten with words alone. Mycroft was a true Renaissance Man. While Sherlock looked at the world with wonder, Mycroft seemed to have seen and heard it all. "There's nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before."

John noticed he was staring at Mycroft with a slight dreamy glaze. He was smiling unintentionally. He had even started to drool a bit. He wiped the corners of his mouth.

_Ridiculous._

John shifted slightly.

_By God! Was I getting a hard-on?_

John looked away concerned. He'd never felt this before. Maybe he had.

_The club, Sherlock's eyes._

He was sloshed, how could that possibly count? This was his first time being attracted to a man without being sexually intimate and just getting caught up in the moment. When he looked at Sherlock all he saw was Sherlock.

He was attractive, what with his cheek bones and him turning up his collar to look cool. John didn't waltz around the flat with a half hard-on all day because Sherlock was in the room. That was perhaps a really good thing.

Greg was… no. Just no. John didn't see him that way. He was handsome in a George Clooney had a baby with Brad Pitt sort of way. He had nice teeth. Was good at football.

John shrugged at the thought. He looked back at Mycroft. He felt a small flutter. A little light headedness.

_Am I swooning?_

"Where are we going? I want to know how to dress." John shouted from the kitchen.

"I'll help." Mycroft said running a final note over the strings. He drew the bow away and nestled the violin in its case. "God knows you'll need it."

"Uh." John stalled. "I should be fine…" John nodded. "Just tell me where we're headed, I'll dress accordingly." John gulped. Mycroft stood and walked toward the kitchen.

"Nonsense. You can't find a pair of matching socks let alone put an outfit together. Let me help you." Mycroft looked John over. "Ah. I see." He smirked and looked John in the eyes. "Enjoy the violin do you?"

"Um. No." John looked at the ground.

"What was it then?"

"Just… I don't know…" John shuffled his foot. He shrugged. "You."

"Hm." Mycroft hummed. He lifted his eyebrows. "I have to say, you've surprised me once more." John looked up at Mycroft. "Here I was beginning to believe you weren't actually gay."

John titled his head to one side. "How does that even work?"

"This could have been some kind of experiment. A sort of identity crisis." Mycroft grabbed John's hands and lifted them up. He looked directly at John's crotch. "Some crisis." He smirked. "Dinner?"

"I'm not hungry." John looked away.

"Neither am I." Mycroft said flirtatiously. He leaned down and barely brushed their lips together in a light kiss. He pulled away with a smirk. John's body begged for more. "Dinner, at the penthouse." Mycroft said stroking under John's chin. He pulled away his hand from John's face and backed away. "Eight o' clock. You should be positively _starving_ by then." Mycroft went for his umbrella by the chair. John followed like a lost puppy.

"But… we could…"

"No John." Mycroft looked around. "Not here." John nodded.

_He'd relapse for sure._


	24. Chapter 24

_This was a terrible idea._

John's eyes kept darting to Sherlock's old room. The room they first had sex. All the furnishings would be gone. The desk, the iron barred bed, the cupboard. Sherlock had lived in such squalor in the gorgeous penthouse suite.

John sat in the middle of the sitting room, staring up at the ceiling. John had always had a thing for ceilings, it was almost always the first thing he noticed in a room. The white tiles were so ornate, hand-crafted, yet each piece was virtually identical. John's eyes darted back to the closed bedroom door. He cursed himself under his breath.

Mycroft was silently working away in the kitchen, which was in plain view from the sofa. John was never a fan of an open floor plan but it suited the space. John leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling tiles once more.

There was no television in the flat. It was a bit off. John thought Mycroft would at least watch the news or something. The furnishings were ornate and there was a rouge theme which sucked the light out of the place, making it feel dark. John felt out of place, like he was brought back to another era.

John looked around the sitting room. He stared at the cherry wood dining table with seating for six. It looked ancient. He noticed a gash on one of the table legs. It looked as if someone had attacked it with a sword. John started noticing damage on other pieces of furniture in the room. He chuckled.

_Sherlock._

Each piece had a story to it. Most of them Sherlock related.

John could tell from the minimal decorations why Sherlock chose to clutter their flat with all sorts of oddities. He was trying to fill the void. Mycroft had good taste in furniture but his flat lacked a sense of ownership, that homey feel. The only artwork was in the architecture. It was a beautiful room; there was no real need for wall hangings or knick knacks.

There were however some framed photographs on the top of the piano in the corner. John's curiosity got the better of him. He stood and made way over to the studio piano. He took a seat on the bench and looked intently at the photographs. John smiled.

"Is that Sherlock?" He shouted over his shoulder.

"Yes. He was just about two years old."

"That cannot be Sherlock. He's as happy as a lark." John smiled at the photograph of the laughing boy. The photo was in black and white but he could tell Sherlock had once been quite blonde.

"Well, look at the woman holding him." Mycroft chuckled softly. "He was ever so fond of his mummy when he was little." Mycroft shook his head. "Scowled at everyone else. She took him to a photographer once and he asked if there was something wrong with him. Oh was she livid." Mycroft sighed. "She would never believe there was anything wrong with her baby boy." Mycroft threw a tea towel over his shoulder and washed his hands.

"Where did you two grow up?" John asked

"My earliest years were spent in Sedgefield. We lived down the way from a psychiatric hospital." Mycroft smirked. "I found it quite inspiring. Not because I was interested in mental patients. Rather, I found the architecture intriguing. While others found the hospital eerie, I found it to be quite beautiful." Mycroft turned off the tap and wiped his hands with the towel. "It influenced my style. Edwardian, if you were wondering. Though I have been known to purchase the occasional Victorian piece from time to time."

_Inspired by a mental hospital. Figures._

"We moved to Kensington before Sherlock was born. Right before my seventh birthday."

"So Sherlock was born here in London?" Mycroft nodded. "No wonder he knows the streets so well."

"Yes he had a habit of roaming the streets of London without permission. He was constantly running out the door, threatening never to return." John smiled.

_Just like me._

"He was a rather rambunctious child. He drove away every nanny and mummy would defend him at every turn. Father didn't know how to handle the boy, so he had him sent away the day I went off to uni. He boarded at Brambletye until he was thirteen when he was sent to Harrow." Mycroft laughed. "It was as if father expected Sherlock to become Prime Minister." Mycroft walked over and pointed at a photograph. "There he is at Harrow, it was only last year. Unbelievable." Mycroft said taking his finger away and shoving his hands into his pockets. He started to pace the floor. John squinted at the photo. Sherlock stood out in the sea of goofy looking teens. He had a Mona Lisa smile and his hair was shorter than usual, yet still unruly.

"He looks so young." John remarked.

"He _is_ young."

"Why did he leave Harrow?" John looked at Mycroft who had stopped pacing. He removed his hands from his pockets.

"Our father… left." Mycroft clenched his teeth. "Our mother didn't take it lightly. She immediately withdrew Sherlock from the school and had him live with her. No matter how much I protested she wouldn't send Sherlock back to the school." Mycroft was holding back anger. "It was a good school for him. He was challenged to think, his colleagues were some of the brightest pupils in England, instead she decided to keep him close and coddle him."

Mycroft sat down on the bench next to John and let out a heavy sigh. He ran his hands through his hair. "If only I would have fought harder. We had the finances! We still do. His marks John… They are dreadful. I would have to pull all my cards to get him back in. Even then, there are no promises he would thrive like he did before." Mycroft's eyes were glazed with the promise of tears. He steepled his finger tips, bringing them to his lips.

"I'm afraid it is all my fault." Mycroft took in a deep breath. "I sought to replace both parents. Have him under my roof, under my care. I can't care for a goldfish let alone a human being."

"Mycroft it isn't your fault. He was born with brains that are far too big for his head."

"Yes, but he had a chance… a chance at turning out… better." Mycroft sighed. "He had a future."

"He still has a future." John shrugged.

"Of what? A school for the behaviourally and mentally challenged? A future with a constant threat of relapse; him experimenting with new ways to get himself killed?" Mycroft shook his head. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a future. At least not a bright one." Mycroft buried his face in his hands. "He will despise me forever, because I allowed him to slip through the cracks, when I had every bit of power to stop him." Mycroft withdrew his hands from his face and a single tear rolled down his cheek. "He won't be the death of me, I'll be the cause of his."

"Sherlock isn't going to leap off a tall building because you've failed him."

"John that's a terrible thing to imagine." Mycroft said putting his head in his hands once more.

"Is your mother still in Kensington?"

"No… She retreated to the country estate. Sold the house in Kensington." Mycroft pulled the photo of Sherlock and his mother off the piano and ran his thumb over the frame. "She abandoned all of the furnishings, Sherlock's old toys, my first piano. She even disposed of thousands of family photos." Mycroft frowned as he looked at the photo. "The records dated back to the mid eighteen hundreds." Mycroft sighed. "All lost."

"Does she know about Sherlock?" John swallowed hard. "In… rehab?"

"John, I've been meaning to speak to you." Mycroft turned and placed the photograph back on the piano. "With the holidays fast approaching… and you having… a rather estranged family."

"What are you suggesting?" John asked quite confused.

"I don't have the heart to tell my mother that her youngest son has found his way into a drug rehab."

"And you were hoping I would tell her for you?" John slid back in the seat to get a better look at Mycroft.

"No John." Mycroft put a hand to his forehead and tried to find the strength to speak. "I need… support." John let out a sigh. He scooted towards Mycroft. He wrapped an arm around Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft's head fell against John's chest.

"She musn't know I'm gay." Mycroft sighed into John's shirt. John pulled back slightly.

"Really?" John asked.

"I don't want the poor woman to go into shock."

"But… you are gay… have you ever been… not gay?" John asked seriously.

"No. But she needn't know. It would only upset her."

"Granted I never had to come out of the closet to my parents… shouldn't she know? I mean… what if she expects you to get married? Have children?"

"Of course she does. I merely tell her I haven't the time for such things with my work."

"She's already pressuring you?"

"She had me young and expects me to have children young as well." Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. "Will you accompany me to Oxfordshire?"

"Why not?" John stretched and Mycroft sat up. "Might as well get the London air out of my lungs. Get my fill of nature. Get my mind of things."

"Honestly?"

"Sure. You supported me with Greg, the least I can do is support you with your mother." John brought his forehead to Mycroft's. "Plus I wouldn't pass up the chance to chase you around your family's estate, secretly snogging behind mummy Holmes' back."

"You'd best behave or I'm leaving you on the kerb."

"I'm not worried about me." John said pulling back and standing up. "I'd like to see you try keep your hands off all this." Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "What?"

"I don't take well to dirty talk I'm afraid."

"Sure you do."

"No, I merely flirt. I don't use grotesque and foul language. It's beneath me."

"I thought I was beneath you."

"John there's no need to be crass." Mycroft sighed.

"When we're off on our lover's retreat, what about Moran? He's not likely to sit idle and take off time for Christmas. What if he attacks on Christmas day?"

"I am aware that we aren't certain of our time table."

_Time._

"Mycroft, something has been really been bothering me. It's the last thing Sherlock said, before he was brought in." _Against his will._ "He was saying something about time running out. He kept emphasizing 'time' over and over. I just… I don't know what to make of it." Mycroft went silent. He furrowed his eyebrows in concern. He titled his head.

"How could Sherlock have figured…" He said into the air. "Wait here, I will only be a moment." Mycroft stood and strolled across the flat and disappeared past the divider and into what John assumed to be his bedroom. John rested his back against the piano and waited, staring at the ceiling once more.

Mycroft returned with a file folder.

"John, the night before Sherlock was… taken away." Mycroft coughed. "This folder. You left it in my office."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot all about it. My head was a little… in the clouds." Mycroft sat down next to John and opened up the folder.

"I wanted Sherlock to look through these photographs, tell me what he thought of them." Mycroft pulled out a Polaroid picture with a number in the corner. "Do you know what this is?"

"A… peg board? With some kind of circuit."

"Yes and a highly simple one at that. Now the next one." Mycroft pulled out a picture of a circuit board with a mass amount of wires and transistors. It looked more like something that would be in a computer. "It is another circuit board. A bit of a mess. Most of the wires are false. They are a diversionary tactic." Mycroft pulled out another photograph and another, flipping through them quickly, each increasing in complexity and size. Then Mycroft came to the last photo. "And this one, Is the most concerning of all." He gently slid it into John's hands.

"It looks like the inner workings of a clock." It had all sorts of shiny brass gears, coils, and cogs. It was brilliantly elaborate. "What does it have to do with the others?"

"These are a collection of Sebastian Moran's major works, throughout time." Mycroft sighed. "In the past, his devices were archaic at best. No self-respecting bomber would use such faulty methods and so many fail-safes." Mycroft said thumbing through the photos. "He was approaching a more effective bomb, here with the one that looks more like a computer's circuit board. Still his technique was awful, at best. His devices failed to detonate on several occasions." Mycroft sighed. "He was a laughing stalk among his peers. He had no respect in the Middle East. He started out as a simple pack-mule. Trafficking hashish. He was an army sniper with way too much free time on his hands. He'd work endless hours trying to perfect his 'art'."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "I just don't understand how such a well educated man couldn't put together a simple bomb. His Chlorine bombs were a testament to his ignorance." Mycroft scoffed. "They were widely ineffective. The heat of the explosion rendered the gas useless. They were used unsuccessfully in Ramadi over the course of one year."

"So… when Moran was in Afghanistan he was helping the terrorists in Iraq?"

"Yes."

"That… bastard!" John shouted. "He's a traitor!"

"John, he wasn't a very good man to start with." Mycroft chuckled softly.

"Yes… Well… That's like the ultimate form of treason there."

"John take a look at the photograph in your hands. Tell me how it relates to the other photos." Mycroft tapped his finger on the photo.

"It doesn't."

"Exactly." Mycroft said. "How and why would a man with such insignificant skills in demolitions suddenly become so proficient in making time bombs."

"Time? Time-bombs? Like a ticking… alarm clock time bomb?" John shook his head. "I thought they didn't use those kind any more. Modern bombs don't tick."

_Fight Club. Doubt he's seen it._

"There isn't a single wire in the clock-wise bomb. Not one!" Mycroft said with emphasis. "It's outstanding. No fail-safes. Detonates every time. Just set the alarm and let it go." Mycroft shrugged. "We are in every sense, screwed." John held back a smile at Mycroft's choice of words. "The bomb goes to detonation and there is no way to stop it. We've dismantled a few, but in the time it takes to take them apart…" Mycroft stopped and licked his lips. He blinked. "We've lost many men. Trying to deactivate these clock-wise bombs." Mycroft shook his head. "How did Sherlock know? I have only just seen this file myself. How could he possibly know about the clock-wise bomb?"

_If you hadn't sent him away. We could ask him for ourselves._


	25. Chapter 25

"You came down from London on the first available train this morning. Had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied John. You are extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mycroft, and do _please_ smoke. I'd be delighted."

"Sherlock, you're just showing off." John sighed.

"Of course. I _am_ a show-off. That's what we _do_." Sherlock huffed. "Besides. I've been cooped up in here for ages." Sherlock sighed and looked at the floor. "The train napkin you used to wipe your nose, you also used to mop up your spilled coffee; the strength of the stain shows that you didn't take milk. You don't normally drink coffee, especially not black coffee, unless you wake up before four, this suggests you took the earliest train available. You took the 6:17 from Kings Cross, meaning you arrived in Hastings at 8:30. However it's well past noon going by the sun. You checked into the hotel, bed and breakfast, shortly after arriving, skipped the breakfast having already eaten on the train and tried out the bed instead."

"How'd you know breakfast was disappointing?" John asked changing the subject.

"Is there any other type of breakfast on a train? The girl, female handwriting's quite distinctive, wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she sat across from you on the other side of the aisle." Sherlock smirked. "Mycroft your fingers are shaking. No chance to smoke on the train or while busy in bed, you're desperate. Now please." Sherlock looked at Mycroft intently. "Smoke."

"Sherlock, you know I cannot smoke indoors."

"Is that one of those 'law' things?" Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, he stood up, climbed on top of his bed, reached up and twisted the smoke alarm off the ceiling, pulled out the battery and threw it on the ground. He climbed from the top of the bed to his desktop and slid open the window. "Better?" Sherlock asked jumping down from the desk. Mycroft rolled his eyes and pulled out his packet of cigarettes. Sherlock took a step towards him and reached out his hand. Mycroft gave him a look.

"Sherlock, you're doing really well. Don't give up now." Mycroft said lighting up his cigarette and drew in a long drag. He exhaled and Sherlock leaned close into the plume of smoke and inhaled deeply.

"Hm." Sherlock let out a breath. "No, it won't be enough. Give me one." Sherlock reached out his palm and beckoned for a cigarette. Mycroft looked at Sherlock's outreached palm.

"Cold turkey, we agreed, no matter what."

"It's a bloody cigarette. I'm not going to sell my body on the streets for a fag." Sherlock sneered. "If you want to know about the clock work explosives, you'll give me one."

"But he-" John started

"'But Sherlock, Mycroft didn't say anything about the clock-work bombs, how could you possibly know?'." Sherlock mocked. "Why else would you take the first train down from London if something hadn't happened last night? You figured out my message and came to me for information."

"You know Sherlock, you didn't _need_ to be cryptic. You could have told me outright what was going on." John crossed his arms.

"Yes… and use up my get out of jail free card?" Sherlock looked around. "I'm leaving, today, I'm already packed. Granted it didn't take long, I only came here with the clothes on my back." Sherlock said glaring at Mycroft.

"Sherlock. You're not leaving with us." Mycroft said blowing out a stream of smoke. "We're headed straight for Oxfordshire in the morning."

"All the more reason to take me with you. Wouldn't mummy be thrilled to see her favourite son?" Sherlock smirked.

"You need to finish your program. I can't have you relapsing at a time like this."

"So you'll just send me away so you don't have to deal with me? Make me someone else's problem?" Sherlock turned towards the window. "Fine, leave me here, break mummy's heart. Fill father's shoes."

"I am nothing like father. I'm not abandoning you in your time of need. I want you to recover fully."

"You are every bit his son." Sherlock laughed low. "You can't control me so you send me away."

"You decry the benefits of a private education. Weren't you happy at Harrow?"

"The straw boater wasn't in the least bit flattering." Sherlock frowned.

"Oh I'd say the gondolier look rather suited you." Mycroft chuckled. "Gave you an old world charm."

"Yes and at my next school they'll have me in a safety helmet. My name and address will be stitched into all my clothes. 'Hi! My name's Sherlock, if found please return to 221-B Baker Street'."

"If you didn't act the part, you wouldn't be going to a school for the mentally challenged." Mycroft sneered.

"Mycroft!" John shouted. Mycroft gave John a pleading look. John nodded towards Sherlock and Mycroft rolled his eyes. He titled his head and raised an eyebrow at John. John tapped his finger on his forearm, waiting.

"Oh God, you two are speaking telepathically now." Sherlock let out a heavy sigh. "Things must really be serious. When's the wedding then? Oh how I love a white wedding." Sherlock wiped away a fake tear. "My brother, the virgin bride."

"Shut up Sherlock." John said shortly.

"Seriously, how much worse could John's prick be? Compared to the permanent stick that's been wedged up your arse?" The corner of Sherlock's lip twitched into a grin. Mycroft snuffed out his cigarette on the windowsill.

"You have until five this afternoon to come up with one solid reason I shouldn't leave you here." Mycroft shifted slightly. "And I do believe an apology is in order."

"My apologies Mycroft." Sherlock said plainly. "You don't have a stick wedged up your arse."

"Thank you."

"It is in fact the whole tree, branches and all, that's been jammed up your unyielding arsehole." Sherlock smirked. "Now, there isn't a moment to lose, I'm coming with you." Sherlock said throwing on his trainers.

"Haven't you a coat?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft let out a sigh. "I have one you could borrow, I suppose."

"I want that one." Sherlock pointed to the dark grey tweed trench coat Mycroft was wearing. "It will match my scarf quite nicely." Sherlock reached out and beckoned for the coat.

"No. The style has been discontinued. Besides it's frigid out, I'll catch a chill."

"You would rather have me catch my death instead?" Sherlock pouted. "What would mummy say?"

"Fine take it." Mycroft said tearing off the coat and throwing it at Sherlock. "Keep it. I don't care what you do with it." Mycroft said rather flustered. Sherlock smiled looking over the coat. Sherlock put his arms in the sleeves and shrugged it on to his shoulders. He turned up his collar and drew the coat closed.

John couldn't help but grin and shake his head. It fit him well, with room to grow.

"Consider it an early Christmas present." Mycroft said with a sigh, looking at the coat with disappointment. "Belstaff." Mycroft gritted his teeth. "If you mistreat it, I'll be very cross."

"A coat as fine as this? I'd never." Sherlock ran his hands down the front. "Sorry I haven't gotten you a gift yet."

"Brother, your presence is my present." Mycroft jeered.

"Sarcasm, the lowest form of wit." Sherlock scoffed.

"All right children. That' s enough. Let's get out of here. This place is giving me the creeps." John grimaced as he looked outside at the surrounding grounds. A raven was perched on a dead tree. John swore he could hear it squawk 'nevermore.'

"Good, let's go down by the pier and score some blow." Sherlock said slapping his hands together and giving them a good rub. Mycroft and John gave him a look. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "All right we'll just shoot up some of the morphine Mycroft has brought with him."

"Sherlock." John said through clenched teeth. "You're treading on thin ice. You'd best keep your damned mouth shut or you _will_ be left here."

"Has Mycroft really sucked all the fun out of you?" Sherlock looked at Mycroft and lifted an eyebrow. "No, I didn't suppose he would."

"Sherlock, are you getting off on this?" John asked glaring at Sherlock.

"On what?"

"Imagining us two in bed?"

"No, that's disgusting. I'm not imagining you two in… no! Get a grip John." Sherlock said grimacing. "I was merely observing fact."

"Yes and your brain is whirling with the imagery." Mycroft smiled as Sherlock writhed in mental discomfort.

"Stop it! All right. God. I'm trying to purge it from my mind."

John hoped Sherlock didn't know the half of it.

Earlier that day when they first arrived in Hastings, John was too exhausted to think straight. His lower eyelids were twitching; he was unable to sleep on the train. He tried drinking some coffee, hoping he would tolerate it well and be more awake. Instead it turned his stomach sour and gave him a dull head-ache.

The moment they entered their room at the bed and breakfast John threw himself face first on the bed and groaned.

"I don't know why you insisted on staying awake during the train ride." Mycroft said sliding off his shoes and socks, then his trousers which were damp around the hems. It was raining sleet and John's head and sinuses were stinging from the changing weather.

John sunk into the plush comforter and felt himself drift off. He felt a tug at his feet. He shifted his head to see Mycroft dressed only in his under, removing his boots. Mycroft had purchased the pair of leather Loake boots for John after his old ratty trainers had mysteriously disappeared. They did a good job of keeping the water out but once they were removed and Mycroft stripped off his socks, the cold wet hem of John's jeans hit the back of his ankle making him jolt.

"My God! That's bloody freezing." John quickly undid his button and zip and slid his trousers off and sighed with relief. His ankle was slightly numb and felt cool to the touch. John sat up and ran his hands through his hair. He was much more awake after the shock.

He looked at Mycroft and hummed at the sight of the slightly less dressed man. He looked ages younger in boxers and a shirt.

"I take it you would like to rest before visiting my brother?" Mycroft asked turning off the bedside lamp. "Or would you rather…" Mycroft let the question drift off into the air as he looked into John's eyes. They held each other's gaze a moment before John reached out and placed his hand on the back of Mycroft's head, lacing his fingers through his soft hair.

John leaned forward, drawing Mycroft towards him, and brought him into a tender embrace. A fire was stirring in John's crotch but he kept withdrawn, and focused on keeping the kiss light and gentle. He needed solid foundation for his advances, he couldn't dive in head first, and risk breaking down and losing himself in the moment.

It sounded strange, but he felt he had to prove that he was gay. Prove it to Mycroft and the rest of the world. Up to this point, John thought being gay was just having sex with someone of the same gender. Anyone can be in a homosexual situation and lose themselves.

_"Don't have to like it, just gotta still be gay after it's all said and done."_

Mycroft was a stark contrast to Greg in bed. Mycroft, if anything, was bordering too gentle. Holding back was painful for John. Mycroft made him ache with desire. It took every last bit of John's resolve to keep from throwing himself at Mycroft.

John was quite certain that Mycroft was well aware of how he pushed John's self-control to its limits. When John would become too heated, Mycroft would withdraw slightly. It was absolute torture at times.

John let go of Mycroft's hair and slid his hand down to the back of Mycroft's neck. Mycroft broke off the kiss and John removed his hand in fear he was dominating the kiss. Mycroft leaned forward and gently pressed John backwards to lie on the bed. He pressed his weight against John and resumed the kiss in a far more dominating position.

John let go of his control as he melted into the kiss. The pressure of Mycroft's body on top of him was comforting. John's mind was going numb from the kiss, he felt like he was in a drunken splendour. He was having problems remembering his own name and the name of the man on top of him. He begged his mind not to shout out the wrong name.

_Mycroft. Not Sherlock, Mycroft._

John shut his eyes and his thoughts began to wander.

_My croft, my little piece of green pasture, fenced off from the world. I am his crofter and I must tend to him._

John felt a hum buzz against his lips, bringing him out of his haze. Mycroft began rocking his hips, rutting up against John's inner thigh. John placed his hands lightly on Mycroft's back. He fought the strong urge to push, pull, and guide Mycroft to where he wanted him.

Mycroft brought himself away from the kiss and ghosted his lips over John's neck. He breathed hot moist air over the side of John's neck causing him to squirm. John let out a slight whimper. His cock was pulsating, it throbbed with need.

John desperately wanted friction. Mycroft was an absolute tease and took great pleasure in the way John turned to a shuddering mess without any direct stimulation. John noticed a wicked grin flash across Mycroft's lips.

Mycroft shifted and lined up more directly with John's groin. He leaned in and pressed their lips together once more. He started to kiss with more vigour. John was starting to lose his resolve and started pressing into the kiss more. John made a rash move and dove his tongue into Mycroft's mouth.

Mycroft bucked his hips forward and their two clothed erections met. John let out a guttural moan. He tried to snake his hands down Mycroft's back to his arse. Mycroft grabbed John roughly by the wrists and slammed them on the bed. He pinned John's arms above his head and ground into his groin with his own.

John couldn't control the sounds coming out of him. Mycroft shut him up with a deep open mouthed kiss. John breathed heavily through his nose as he focused on tonguing Mycroft's mouth. His shoulders were becoming sore from the strain.

John grimaced and shifted his arms at the shoulder. Mycroft let go and broke the kiss. He placed a hand against John's chest and sat up on to his knees. Mycroft looked down at John, running his hand down John's chest to his abs, humming quietly to himself. It looked as if he was debating whether or not to proceed.

John quivered with anticipation.

"Please." He begged. John tried his very best to remain motionless and not force himself upon Mycroft. He was certain that would end badly.

"And if I say no?" Mycroft asked with a malicious grin.

"Please!" John said, close to screaming. He bit his bottom lip and stared directly at Mycroft's clothed erection. He'd never wanted anything so badly; especially not something like this. He knew the initial intrusion wasn't going to pleasurable but he ached for contact. He wanted fulfilment, to be swept up in a heat of passion.

This was absolutely torturous. John desperately needed to be touched. His foreskin was tight around the head of his cock, he felt like it was tearing apart. A shot of pain rippled through him and the moment he reached his hand down to touch himself, Mycroft caught him by the wrist.

"God, it hurts." John said wincing in pain.

"You still haven't answered. What if I were to say no?"

"Then I'd…" John writhed in pain and tried to think. "Fuck." John stretched his fingers. "Please Mycroft!" Mycroft let go and John dove his hand down the front of his pants. He grasped the shaft of his cock and slowly slid downward. The stretch hurt at first but he was greeted with relief as his foreskin completely retracted over the head of his cock.

John let out a sigh of relief. He let go and removed his hand from his pants. He took in a few deep breaths.

"You submit far too easily." Mycroft said with a sigh.

"No, it hurts like fuck."

"I meant to me, not the pain."

"What do you want from me?" John asked with a plea.

"To assert your masculinity. Not roll over and take it like some…"

"Girl?" John offered.

"Exactly."

"I thought you preferred things… you know, more gentle."

"At first, yes." Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. "If only to make it a pleasurable experience for both parties. Then given the time to acclimate and become desensitized to the act, I'd prefer a change in pace." Mycroft looked down at John. "Are you not ready?"

"For what?" John whined. He was becoming agitated, he needed satisfaction.

"For God's sake man, I expect a little fight out of you! Some…" Mycroft waved a hand in the air trying to come up with the words. "Defiance!"

"Huh?" John asked tilting his head.

"Oh never mind. This was an awful idea." Mycroft said turning away to get off the bed. "Maybe I misjudged you John. You give in far too easily."

"I…" John opened his mouth to speak and clamped it shut.

_But… sex…_

Mycroft went to his suitcase and got on his knees to open it up. John brought his hands to his face and screamed a long drawn out "Fuck!" into the air.

Mycroft snapped his attention towards John. "Johnathan Hamish Watson!"

"Well Christ Mycroft whatever-the-fuck-your-middle-name-is Holmes."

"Sigerson." Mycroft said indignantly.

"Good to know." John said running his fingernails through his hair. He whimpered quietly. His arousal was fading all too slowly. He still pulsated with desire.

_Mycroft's trying to kill me. I'm too dominant, I'm too submissive. I'm not gay enough. At what point will I be 'too' gay for him?_

John clutched his head. "What do you want?" He near shouted.

"For you to be a man!"

"I am a man!" John shouted.

"Prove it!" Mycroft hissed.

"Oh I'm gonna fuck the posh off your face." John sneered.

He leapt off the bed and threw his body weight against Mycroft who let out an "Oof" as he was thrown to the floor. "I didn't mean rape me!" He squealed.

"I wasn't…" John lifted off Mycroft slightly. Mycroft took advantage of the situation and launched John off and on to his back. He mounted John and pinned his arms to the ground. John struggled under Mycroft's weight. He attempted to wrench from Mycroft's grip.

"Now, now. I don't want anything too rough, but a little passion is warranted."

"Passion!" John shouted. "This is madness! You pull away every time things get remotely heated."

"It's not my fault I'm a bit of a tease."

"A bit!" John bucked his hips up trying to dislodge Mycroft from his mount. "This is bloody torture."

"I know, but won't it all be worth it in the end?"

"It had better be." John scowled. He had never been so angry and horny at the same time. It was worse than having pain mixed with pleasure. Mycroft dismounted and stood up. He offered a hand to John.

"Shall we?" He asked with a slight smirk. John gritted his teeth and glared at Mycroft.

_Why is he doing this? I shouldn't even have sex with him, if he's going to torture me. I'd like to see the look on that posh git's face if I just turned round and walked out on him. That's just what I'll do. I'll leave._

Mycroft grasped on to John's hand and pulled him up. He grabbed John tightly by the shoulders and leaned down for a lip crushing kiss. Mycroft's member was pressed firmly against John's abdomen. It twitched and John felt a burning fire return to his crotch. John changed tactics and fought for dominance in the kiss, only to be pushed back with greater force.

John tried to rut against Mycroft's thigh. Mycroft pulled away and John let out a feral growl against Mycroft's lips. Mycroft let out a low and evil laugh. He broke the kiss and John lunged back for his lips. Both men tumbled on to the bed and scrambled for the dominant position.

They rolled several times before reaching the headboard. John found himself bewildered and on top. Mycroft reached out his hands to grasp John's shirt. John grabbed him by the wrist and slammed his hands against the bed, above his head.

_Let's see how you like it._

John teasingly rolled his hips and brushed against Mycroft's erection. Mycroft jerked his arms upward and John held them tighter.

"When you wanted me to fight back, didn't think I'd win did ya?" John teased. Mycroft clutched on to John forearms and used his body weight to roll them on to their sides. John wrapped his legs around Mycroft's pelvis, bringing him into a sideways guard.

Mycroft grasped the back of John's head with both hands and brought them back into a feverish kiss. John ground his arse into Mycroft's groin causing Mycroft groan into the kiss. They rolled together once more bringing Mycroft on top and in John's guard. Mycroft wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and started grinding himself against John's arse.

Even with their lips locked in a heated embrace Mycroft was grunting with each thrust. He pulled back and groaned loudly.

"John… we haven't any…" Mycroft grunted once more. "Lubricant." He winced.

"Spit?" John asked wincing as well.

"No. No." Mycroft brought himself to a slow stop. "I couldn't do that to you… hurts like…"

"A bitch?"

"I wouldn't." Mycroft said gently. He grabbed both sides of John's face and gave him a gentle kiss. "I'm sorry." He lifted John's shirt up past his navel. John tried looking down at Mycroft whose lips were dangerously close to his cock. He blew hot air through John's briefs and started mouthing John's trapped erection. John dug his fingers into the bed spread and grabbed fists full of the comforter. He clamped his eyes shut and said a small prayer.

Mycroft hurriedly pulled John's briefs completely off and resumed his position. The cool rush of air sent a shiver down John's spine. Then when Mycroft's warm tongue ran up his shaft and barely glanced over his glans, John ached all over. Mycroft gripped John's cock as if it were a violin's bow and gently glided his soft fingers up and down.

John shuddered from the sensation.

"A little forewarning would be greatly appreciated." Mycroft said shifting himself so his head was directly above John's cock. "Acknowledged?"

"Ack-acknowledged." John nodded. Mycroft slid his lips slowly over John's cock, not focusing on the overly-sensitive tip like most, but rather sliding down the shaft and matching his hand's gentle sliding motion with the movement of his head up and down.

He treated John's cock as if it were an instrument, and the noises coming from John would suggest he was one. John's pitch seemed to change from a deep moan to a high pitched squeal depending on the position and speed with which Mycroft was sucking him off. John's toes curled as Mycroft changed the shape of his tongue and expertly drew it up toward his frenulum. He paused briefly to roll his tongue against it and John jerked slightly.

Mycroft slid down once more to John's base, taking his length easily. John was certain he was brushing up against the back of Mycroft's throat.

_No gag reflex. Must run in the family._

John moaned.

_Why am I thinking of Sherlock at a time like this?_

John banished Sherlock out of his thoughts as Mycroft shifted once more and brought a hand to John's arse and ran it down the cleft. He brought a finger to rest on John's opening. John clenched with anticipation. Mycroft encircled the entrance with his finger like a hawk circling its prey. When John relaxed slightly as he gently slid it in and held it still a moment. John took in a few deep breaths, fast becoming used to the sensation. Mycroft kept up his masterful oral pleasuring while he gently turned his wrist and started to draw his finger upward toward John's prostate.

John bucked up his hips when Mycroft hit the gland. Mycroft gently brushed his finger against it once more and John winced. It was too much at once.

"Ah, mmm… come." John sputtered out. Mycroft quickly removed his mouth and wrapped his hand more tightly around John's cock. He jerked him off rapidly and John threw his head back. Those nibble fingers were amazingly smooth and deliberate. John felt a building ache and the painful pleasure start to rise in his abdomen. He lost his breath as he was brought to a body shattering orgasm.

He felt a glob of ejaculate hit him on the chin and he was immediately brought down from his climax. He felt his body return and all of his sensations with it. He was certain he had never shot that far in his life. He rubbed his chin in disgust. He looked down his shirt front to see a stream-line of come.

_Good God, when was the last time I came?_

John thought back to months ago when Sherlock had sucked him off.

_That can't be the last time… can it?_

John ran his clean hand through his hair.

_I'm surprised my balls didn't just explode._

Mycroft withdrew his finger and John let out a sigh of relief.

"Do you… reciprocate?" Mycroft asked awkwardly. "I mean… have you? You know… reciprocated?" John drew himself up on to his elbows and looked down at Mycroft.

"Um… once." John gulped. Last time he was drugged out of his mind and he wasn't certain he was any good. He couldn't possibly compare to Mycroft, he had experience. John wasn't even sure he could perform the task and not use teeth let alone make it any good. "Wouldn't you rather…" John looked down.

"It wouldn't be a pleasurable experience." Mycroft sighed.

"Yeah at first, but I don't know, I might get used to it."

"Are you certain?" John nodded. "I don't want to trigger any post traumatic stress." Mycroft looked at John with sorrowful eyes.

_Does he really care that much?_

"I don't want to cause any traumatic stress disorder by giving you a crap blow job." Mycroft chuckled lightly.

"I'm certain you'd do fine." He shook his head. "If you're sure." He sighed. "All right. Just… close your eyes."

"Why?" John asked with a grimace.

"It's disgusting."

"What is?"

"Preparing with saliva." John laughed. He leaned back and lay on the bed once more.

"All right, I'm not looking." John could hear Mycroft making odd sucking noises, presumably filling his mouth with saliva. Mycroft tried to cover up the sound of him spitting on to his fingers. John heard the snap of Mycroft's boxer being slid down and removed, then the distinct sloping sound of the saliva lubricant being slid up and down his cock.

"Do you need more um… preparation?" Mycroft asked coughing slightly.

"No, just… go for it I guess." John took in a deep breath. Mycroft pulled up John's legs and shoved a pillow under his lower back to prop him up.

"Keep your knees drawn in close, like last time." Mycroft said nervously. John opened his eyes to see Mycroft on his knees, holding himself, giving it a light stroke and hesitantly looking at John. "I don't want to hurt you." He choked.

"Don't." John said plainly. Mycroft let go of himself and leaned forward to kiss John tenderly. John brought his knees up as close as he could to his chest and Mycroft lined up with his entrance. Both men took in a deep breath as Mycroft pressed against the tight opening, slowly stretching it. John closed his eyes and took to deep breathing. He entered a meditative state where all he could see was blinding white. He detached himself from the situation as Mycroft fully buried his length.

John felt light headed as he returned to the real world. Mycroft had his hands wrapped around John's shins keeping him in position. The positioning restricted John's breathing but it made entry loads easier and less painful even without adequate lubrication. Mycroft slid back slightly.

"Try relax." Mycroft said bringing his hand to John's forehead and brushing his hair back. John could feel himself sweating; he shifted and took in some more deep breaths.

_God, will this ever not hurt?_

The initial thrusts were the worst.

_If only I could get through this damn part. Fuck._

What waited on the other side was pure bliss. He could literally be fucked senseless. John relaxed his hips the best he could and lowered his back to rest more on the pillow. Mycroft gave a slight thrust and John felt a shot of pain jolt up his spine. He brought his hands to his face.

"Stop?" Mycroft asked breathlessly.

John squeaked a "No." and shook his head. He removed his hands from his face and dug his fingers into the bedspread. "Just… do… it…" He said through heavy breaths. Mycroft started moving in response. He kept his movements long and drawn out. The fluid motion of Mycroft's hips kept the pain constant and dull. John's became light headed once more as his pain slowly turned to pleasure, first within the depths of his cavity, then closer and closer to his entrance until the entire motion of Mycroft's cock sliding in and out became not just bearable but deeply pleasurable. John let out a low moan.

"Harder." John said in breathless anticipation.

"Oh, finally." Mycroft groaned. The smile on John's face was quickly removed as Mycroft picked up pace. John furrowed his brows and let out a wicked moan. Mycroft was grunting animalistically and had completely let go. John trashed his head to one side and grimaced as the waves of conflicting sensations swept over him. He started feeling all his repressed emotions attacking his consciousness at once.

Mycroft pulled out suddenly.

"John, your shirt." He said holding out one hand while jerking himself off with the other. John ripped the shirt off his back and gave it to Mycroft. Mycroft snatched it eagerly and brought it close to himself. He let out a single grunt and a sigh through his nose as he came on John's t-shirt. He let out a heavy sigh and wiped his cock clean. He bunched up the t-shirt and slid off the bed. He dumped the shirt into the waste bin and headed towards the on-suite bathroom.

John felt panic rise in his chest. He tried to hold back his emotions, bury them down once more but it was of no use. After being filled like that and suddenly having it all taken away killed John inside. He needed to be held. His fingers felt like they were being stabbed with icicles. His chest felt tight and he struggled to breathe without heaving.

He was having a full fledge panic attack. He rolled on to his stomach and held his head tight. His laboured breaths hissed as they passed through his clenched teeth. His temporal vein pulsated against his finger tips.

_What's wrong with me?_

He clenched his eyes shut and dug his fingers into his temples. His mouth started salivating uncontrollably and he brought himself into a fit. His head jerked in a kind of conscious seizure that he couldn't control. His lip snarled and his teeth clenched ever tighter, threatening to chip under pressure.

John was unaware of his surroundings until a splash of cold water hit him in the face and brought him out of his fit and into shock. John opened his eyes wide and panted heavily. Mycroft grabbed John by the sides of his face and brought his own face in close. He rubbed John's temples.

"It's all right." He said sternly. John looked at him, mouth agape, trying to bring his thoughts together. Mycroft let go and stepped back. John's head fell into his hands and he sobbed heavily, feeling like such a fool. His embarrassment only made matters worse.

Mycroft who had once admitted he couldn't care for a goldfish much less a human being was at a loss for what to do to console the crying boy.

"I could… take it to the cleaners." Mycroft tried. John lifted up his head and sniffled.

"What?" John's eyes stung. A tear rolled down his cheek and dripped off his chin and on to the comforter, leaving a tiny wet spot. John rubbed his burning eyes.

"Your t-shirt… I could have it cleaned. I didn't mean to… upset you."

John coughed a laugh. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably as he took a seat on the bedside. His back was ramrod straight and he had his hands on his lap. He had his boxers back on but he was completely exposed and vulnerable, which John found quite funny; endearing even.

John laughed. "No. No it's fine." He smiled. "Burn it for all I care. One of Greg's."

"Oh I knew I missed one." Mycroft said looking away and shaking his head. John reached out and gave him a feeble punch in the hip.

"So you were the one stealing all my clothes!" John laughed.

"Oh I had to. They were absolutely hideous."

"Since when are t-shirts and trainers hideous?"

"Dear God, you'd believe a man who had spent so much time in the closet would have learned to dress better." John broke out into laughter and Mycroft grinned shyly.

After a good belly laugh John fell into a deep sleep while Mycroft read a thick and atrociously boring book beside him. At least, John believed it to be dreadfully boring. Mycroft seemed enthralled by John Locke, the father of classical Liberalism. From whom Sherlock and he took the idea of _tabula rasa_ and transformed it into the brain attic, or mind palace in Sherlock's case.

Mycroft held true to many aspects of Locke's political theories including his right to be selfish in pursuit of defending his life, health, liberty, and possessions. He believed in revolution and separation of powers. John believed whole heartedly that Mycroft wanted to overthrow the Queen and take her crown.

_His first act would be to dissolve the parliament, wage war against the world, and bring rise to a new British empire, all before mid-day tea. God save the Queen._


	26. Chapter 26

John sat in between the bickering boys for two and half hours in a private car meant to seat two in the rear. John's ears were aching from the back and forth arguing.

They had fought over who John was to sit next to, the climate controls, the radio.

_You're pushing John too close to me, no you're pushing him close to me. Where's my phone? Why didn't you bring it? I'm bored, get over it._

It was like listening to Wimbledon; the ball going back and forth.

_Ping, pong, ping, pong._

John twisted his sore neck and wished they were close to the estate.

"Hey, who's sharing with whom?" Sherlock asked pushing John back to get a better look at Mycroft.

"Sharing?" John asked.

"The estate has eight bedrooms I hardly believe anyone will need to share."

"Ah-ha but only five of which are usable as sleeping quarters. Two are taken."

"That leaves three, one for each of us. Are you really doing that poorly in mathematics?" Mycroft rolled his eyes. "How do you figure two are taken?"

"You know grandmother will be there." Sherlock snarled. Mycroft grimaced as well. "Mycroft might have a tree up his bum." Sherlock said to John. "Grandmother has the whole forest up hers." John giggled.

"That bad eh?" He asked Mycroft.

"You haven't the slightest idea." Mycroft crossed his arms and slid down slightly in his seat.

"She was the one that gave father the idea of boarding school. I think she had a large hand in my father's decisions."

"She was also quite possibly the one who drove him away."

"He didn't even say anything, just…" Sherlock whistled. "split."

"Sherlock, that's enough." Mycroft sneered. He shifted and sat up once more. Sherlock turned and looked out the window.

"Look at that. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful?" Sherlock asked with a sigh.

"I would have loved this as a kid. Open fields of green. I'd be able to run for ages and never hit anything." John said leaning his head against the back of the seat.

"And now?" Sherlock asked.

"I'd hate to have to mow it all. The upkeep would kill me." John looked out Sherlock's window. "I couldn't tend to something that massive." John reached back and covertly hooked his little finger with Mycroft's. Mycroft looked out his own window and gave John's finger a small squeeze.

Sherlock leaned his head against his window. "How much further?"

"If you say you're bored one more time, Sherlock, I don't care the consequences that await me upon our arrival, I will kill you and they will _never_ find the body." Mycroft said breathing heavily.

"Ooh siblicide." Sherlock said with a grin. "What are you going to do with the body then? Vat of acid? They'd find my DNA all over the barrel. And it is so cliché, I would think you would do a cleverer job."

"I'd have the Russian space agency launch you into space without oxygen. You'll be perfectly preserved in your little doofus form for all of eternity. Never reaching full maturity." Mycroft laughed. "You might even still have that hideous spot on the side of your nose light years into the future."

"I do not have a spot!" Sherlock shouted, his voice cracking slightly. He coughed and looked away, stealthily running his finger on the side of his nose. Mycroft looked out his window once more, grinning in victory. John let go of his finger and Mycroft pulled his hand away.

They turned on to a gravel drive and reached a five barred gate which automatically swung open to allow the car through. John first caught sight of the manor and let out an annoyed sigh.

_Eight bedrooms. I had to share with my sister until I was nine. She had sex on my bed for Christ's sake! 'It's da lower bunk, duh Johnny'._

John mocked his sister in his head. He growled on the inside. He tried not to be envious but as they pulled round the circular drive and parked in front of the gorgeous red brick and grey stone building it was hard not to be. It was the perfect fairy tale manor, with a gorgeous garden and mature landscaping.

The driver stepped out and opened the door on Mycroft's side. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Ladies first." Sherlock huffed. Mycroft shot a look back as he slid out of the car. He offered out a hand for John and Sherlock scowled. Sherlock grabbed the door handle and swung his door open. "I'm perfectly capable of letting myself out." He said storming away from the car and to the front door.

"Don't mind him, he's always cranky after… anything." Mycroft said to the driver. John chuckled. They walked up the walk way to Sherlock who was actively assaulting the door bell. "Sherlock! Knock first."

"What and break my hand on the door?" Sherlock was quite right. The door was solid oak and didn't look like it would make much of a sound when struck, other than a howl from the person who struck it in the first place.

The door creaked as it glided open. The entryway came into view along with an old woman with short gray hair. Her height was impressive for her frail frame; she was a good five inches taller than John. She had high cheek bones and piercing blue eyes.

Her smile was highly concerning. She had a grin like the cat who ate the canary and her eyes burned with an intensity that made John's skin crawl. She was very witch-like. John expected her to evaporate into thin air and appear next to him. She appeared to be peering into his soul. John was certain she would be the creature of future nightmares.

"My, My how you've grown." She said extending her arms for the elder Holmes. She spoke unhurriedly with an air of extraordinary arrogance; her dialect suggested she hadn't worked a day in her long life. Mycroft turned on his charm and grinned brightly as he hugged the woman. She let go and gave Mycroft a gentle pat on the shoulder dismissing him. He turned to stand beside her and gave John a sorry look. "And Sherly dear." She said holding out her arms once more. Sherlock took a step back from the threshold and glared. "Now, now. No need to be uncivil." Sherlock growled low in his throat.

"Grandmother, may I just apologise for the state of my little brother?"

"Full time occupation I imagine." She said with a smug grin. John could hear Sherlock grinding his teeth. "And who is the young man you have brought with you?" She extended a hand and John held out his, letting her take grip first and matching her strength.

"John Watson ma'am." He said giving a small bow.

"He's my… um… colleague." Mycroft said awkwardly.

"Colleague." Sherlock scoffed. He smirked and entered the threshold. He started pacing with his hands behind his back.

The entryway wasn't anything special, a staircase, a chair, an arched doorway that led to the garden in back. What struck John as odd was that every door was drawn closed. John's eyes shifted to the three closed doors and the key ring in the grandmother's hands.

"I imagine you three weary travellers are in need of rest. Mycroft, if you would, my legs are not what they used to be."

_What did they use to be?_

"Of course." Mycroft nodded. "Right this way." He said climbing the stairs. John scurried to follow close behind. Sherlock turned on his heels and looked his grandmother over, glowering at her. "Sherlock." Mycroft hissed from the top step. Sherlock strolled away with his nose in the air. He climbed the stairs quickly, taking extra care to make as much noise as possible. He reached the top step and knocked John into Mycroft who responded with an equal and opposite reaction. Sherlock darted up the second flight of stairs and Mycroft reached out for Sherlock's leg.

Mycroft fell over on to the steps and held on to Sherlock's ankle firmly. Sherlock tried to shake him off "Let go!" He shouted.

"Only if you stop acting like a _child_."

"Only if you stop acting like a child." Sherlock mocked. He kicked his foot once more, barely missing Mycroft's nose. Mycroft let go and Sherlock scrambled up the remaining steps. Mycroft was quick on his heels and tackled Sherlock to the ground. He pinned Sherlock's arm behind his back. "Ow, get off!" Sherlock shouted squirming.

"Not until you promise to be civilized!" He shouted.

"Quit it you two!" John shouted trying to pull Mycroft off of Sherlock. Mycroft let go and glared at Sherlock. Sherlock brought himself to his feet and brushed himself off.

"I will not have you acting like a feral child in this house." Mycroft sneered.

"Oh but anywhere else is fine?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes!" Mycroft shouted. "Please, it's Christmas eve. Give me this one present."

"What is the terms of this 'present'?"

"Behave." Mycroft pleaded.

"You're the one who tackled me!" Sherlock said turning away angrily and heading for the first door on the right. He opened the door and slammed it shut behind him. Mycroft let out a heavy sigh.

"Do you think he will… you know… behave?" John asked tentatively.

"Not in the slightest." Mycroft rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. "It is physically impossible for him to behave, even on Christmas." Mycroft let out another sigh and brought his hand away. "Especially on Christmas." Mycroft held out his hand. "Come on." He led John by the hand to the bedroom adjacent from Sherlock's. They closed the door behind them.

Mycroft turned the lock and walked over to lie down on the bed. The bed looked big enough for five fully grown men and hardly took up the massive space of the room. The one room was bigger than the flat on Baker Street. It had a seating area next to the bay window, along with a fireplace, bookshelves, and a massive wardrobe.

John walked over to the bedside and crawled into the middle with Mycroft. He placed his head against Mycroft's chest and nestled under his arm. Mycroft ran his hand down John's arm.

"Colleague." John sighed.

"Sounded better in my head." Mycroft chuckled softly.

"Do you think she knows?" John said looking up at Mycroft.

"No, she is as air-headed as she sounds."

"Where is your mother?" John asked shifting to wrap an arm across Mycroft's chest, pulling him in tight.

"Most likely in the study, passed out on the sofa, next to the fire."

"It's not even three."

"She suffers from manic depression."

"I'm sorry." John said closing his eyes.

"Don't be."

"What would your mum and gran say if they saw us like this?" John asked running a finger along Mycroft's chest.

"Grandmother would retrieve the ammunition while mummy cleaned out the barrel of the shotgun. Then they'd likely give you a good head start before sicking the hounds on you." John pulled away.

"You serious?"

"No." Mycroft chuckled, bringing John into a tight hug. He laid a kiss on John's forehead. "They'd never give you a head start." John pushed away again.

"That isn't remotely funny."

"Don't worry, they'll shoot me first." Mycroft laid a gentle kiss on John's lips. "They're both terribly obsessed with grandchildren and great grandchildren." John snorted.

"Yeah, unfortunately somewhere in the family lineage there was a flaming gay gene."

"Not exactly a selectively advantageous gene now is it?" Mycroft laughed. They both sighed and looked into each other's eyes. "I told you to behave yourself as well. Should I have left you on the kerb?"

"Yes." John said shortly, bringing Mycroft into a warm embrace. There was a loud banging on the door. John jerked.

"Mycroft! Let me in!" Sherlock shouted through the door.

"What is it?" Mycroft shouted back.

"I said let me in!" Mycroft let out a heavy sigh.

"If I ignore him he'll tear the door down." Mycroft said annoyed.

"I know." John rolled his eyes. Mycroft pulled his arm from under John's head and crawled off the bed. Mycroft walked to the door and opened it a crack. Sherlock forced his way in and slammed the door. He ran to the bed and dove on to it.

"How is it fair that you get _my_ flatmate?" Sherlock said bouncing on his back. "Plus, what would mummy say to you two sharing a bed? Him being your _colleague_ and all."

"Sherlock, must you be so damned irritating?"

"God my mind is a like a rocket, tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad. I need something! Get me something!" Sherlock shouted.

"Are you mad boy?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock ran his hands through his hair aggressively and groaned.

"I need mental stimulation! I'm like an engine racing out of control."

"Why don't you tell us about the clock-wise bomb?" John suggested.

"Dull." Sherlock groaned. He rolled on to his belly and buried his face in the comforter. He mumbled something along the lines of "Mm ff mmff."

"Sherlock, how did you know about the bombs when you hadn't seen the case file?" John said tapping his foot on Sherlock's hip.

"In good time John." Sherlock said lifting his head up. "At the moment, I am _extremely_ bored." Mycroft groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Then do something to remedy the situation." Mycroft huffed.

"7% of something would remedy the situation." Sherlock said itching his forehead. He growled low. "Find something to do or I'm going to and you're not going to like it, I assure you brother-mine." Sherlock said with a sneer.

Mycroft shook his head. "Read a book." Sherlock glared at him.

"Cricket?" Sherlock asked with a pout.

"No." Mycroft said plainly.

"Oh come on, we have three people."

"Yes but we haven't the proper equipment." Mycroft walked up to the window and peered out.

"Of course we do, don't be such a stuck up prat."

"Sherlock. Stop." Mycroft said placing his hand against the side of the window frame.

"It's practically tradition! Come on. You don't even have to run." Sherlock looked to Mycroft eagerly. "I've never met a better bowler."

Mycroft ran his hands through his hair, ruffling his tidy hair. "Sherlock. We can't."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked searching his brother's face.

"Haven't you told him?" John asked concerned.

"Told me what?" Sherlock asked with a furrowed brow. "Told me what Mycroft?"

Mycroft took in a deep breath. "When mummy sold the house in Kensington, she left… everything." Sherlock jerked up on to his knees on the bed.

"And you _let_ her?" Sherlock growled, baring his teeth.

"I… had no choice! I was on the other side of the world-"

"I don't care about your excuses!" Sherlock said climbing off the bed. "How dare you! How dare you let her get rid of my whole… everything!" Sherlock shouted. John hadn't seen him so worked up. Sherlock ran out the door and Mycroft could hear him thud down the stairs.

"Why didn't you tell him?" John asked getting out of the bed. "That was over a year ago. He had the right to know." John shook his head.

"I knew he would react poorly." Mycroft sighed.

"Yeah well fuck, I would too if my mum ditched all my stuff and didn't tell me."

"Do you believe I wasn't distraught as well?"

"I never said you weren't, but Christ! A life worth of possessions, gone, just like that? Of course Sherlock is upset. How could you not tell him?"

"She threw away his notes John, what was I supposed to do?"

"His… notes?" John asked.

"Years and years of observations, catalogued, some even leather bound. You must have seen him scribbling away endlessly, working long hours into the night. They are like his diary, his external hard-drive."

"Yes but they're all nonsense; scattered jumbles of words and numbers."

"Not to him." Mycroft said lifting his eyebrow. "If he took the time to write it down, it must be important."

"Now I feel real bad for clearing off the kitchen table… I think I disposed of the answers to world peace and the cure for cancer while I was making room for curry."

"Oh, shut up." Mycroft snorted. "This is no laughing matter. He is highly emotional and the first person he'll run to-"

"He's going to go and tattle?"

"Of course… he's Sherlock."

"Should we… go down there?" John asked with a grimace.

_"_ We shouldn't delay, he's highly convincing when he wants to be." Mycroft walked over and grabbed John's hand. He held it tight. "Don't let her frighten you."

_And what do I say to the woman? Hi! I'm John. Yeah… and I'm the reason you're not going to have grandchildren._


	27. Chapter 27

John felt a nervous sweat break over him as they entered the grand study. They found Sherlock kneeling with his head resting upon his mother's arm. He had obviously turned on the water works. He turned to glare at Mycroft.

John could hardly bare to look at the boys' mother. She was stunningly beautiful, like he had expected. She had shoulder length wavy reddish brown hair, pale skin, and a well defined jaw line along with a cleft chin. She strongly resembled Mycroft.

Her long fingers stroked Sherlock's curls absent mindedly. Her deep blue eyes were fixed on the distance. She appeared bored with the world. John had seen the look grace Sherlock's face on numerous occasions. She was beyond stoic. She brought a chill to the room, though a hearty fire crackled in the fireplace.

"Mrs. Holmes." John said trying to break the silence.

"Sherrinford." She corrected.

"Mrs.-"

"Miss." She corrected once more. John gulped, feeling tongue tied. She let out a heavy sigh. "Cocaine?" She asked.

Mycroft's back jolted straight. John stood close, trying not to brush up against him, but he let him know he was there.

"Mummy… I…" Mycroft was at a loss for words, John felt a pending doom.

"I have been receiving calls…" She said off into the air. "From Sherlock's school."

"You… shouldn't be." Mycroft said pursing his lips. "They know I'm his guardian… th-they should have contacted me first." A cold silence fell upon the room. John felt a chill run down his spine, but he dare not shudder and draw attention to himself.

"You may begin." She said looking away from the spot on the wall and directly into Mycroft's eyes.

"Sh-Sherlock has been living with my colleague, John Watson. I merely… I… it was less… conspicuous calling him our cousin…" She continued to stare at Mycroft with utter indifference. "I'm absent so often and no one would watch him. John… he's… he's good for Sherlock."

"He is good for Sherlock." She repeated.

"The moment I discovered his addiction, I sent him to the rehabilitation centre immediately." Mycroft tore his eyes away from his mother and paced the floor. "I know! He should not have had access to drugs in the first place. He… I…" Mycroft started to hiss through his teeth. "You cannot have him back, it would be detrimental to his health!" Sherlock lifted his head. John felt like he was going to buckle from standing at attention with locked knees.

John shifted slightly and her gaze suddenly turned to him. "And what of John Watson?" She asked Mycroft while staring at John who had stopped breathing.

_What of John Watson?_

John gulped; every muscle in his back went rigid at once. He started seeing spots.

"I am so disappointed in you." She said to Mycroft through John. "He's just a boy."

_Who is she talking to? Who's just a boy?_

Mycroft pursed his lips and Sherlock looked up at him with sorrowful eyes. Mycroft tongued the back of his cheek and sucked in a deep breath.

"John Watson is a friend, nothing more."

"Are you calling your brother a liar?"

"Yes and a pathological one at that." Mycroft sneered. "He lives in his little fantasy world; he's not able to tell what is imaginary and what is fact."

"And you would have him sent away?" She said resting a hand on Sherlock's back.

"He wouldn't be sent away. London has the finest-"

"He should be in a school for the gifted." She glared at Mycroft making him jump.

"I have tried and tried! They all take one look at his marks and don't even give him the chance. It is beyond me why the City of London School hasn't thrown him out yet." Sherlock buried his face in his mother's arm once more. John willed himself out of existence.

"He will not return with you to London. I forbid it." She said shifting in her seat. John hadn't seen her budge an inch since they walked in. She was losing, John could feel it.

"I don't wish to bring social services into this." Mycroft said matching his mother's gaze.

"Neither do I. But, the livelihood of my child is at stake."

"You haven't the grounds." Mycroft said walking over towards Sherlock.

"Truancy, drug abuse, emotional distress, I would say I do have the grounds for an investigation."

"And you would find nothing out of the ordinary." Mycroft threatened.

"And above all things, living with _your_ lover?" She said rising to her feet in a smooth motion. Mycroft backed away slightly.

"It's a lie." Mycroft said through clenched teeth. "Sherlock, tell her." Sherlock sat back on his heels. He held his head down.

"Leave, at once." She hissed. Sherlock went to stand. "Sherly dear, you are to stay with me, until the holidays are over."

"No." Sherlock said. Mycroft looked down at Sherlock in shock. "I cannot leave Baker Street. England would fall." Sherlock scoffed.

"But Sherlock, you were-"

"At your feet, crying my eyes out, only just a moment ago? I've gathered the information I needed." Sherlock grinned. "Now, what's for dinner? I always like a nice ham after a good cry. Especially on Christmas eve." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders up and shivered. "Doesn't it just make you feel all festive inside? It's like Christmas tradition now!" Sherlock reached up and pinched his brother's cheek causing Mycroft to furrow his brows and look at Sherlock with concern. "Let's fight for lil Sherly's affection and see who he loves the most." He let go of Mycroft's cheek and gave it a light slap. "Oh how I love the holidays."

"Sherlock you really shouldn't toy with mummy's emotions, she is ever so fragile." Mycroft said catching on to Sherlock's game.

_What the hell is going on?_

"Sherlock, how could you be so horrid?" His mother asked with a tear forming in the corner of her eye.

"Mycroft may not be the best mummy, but he wouldn't sit by idly and let me rot." Sherlock turned to his brother. "And now that I'm certain I won't be sent away! Well all the more reason to celebrate! Champagne?"

"You're far too young." Mycroft said with a grin.

"Is that a yes then?"

"Of course. Champagne though..." Mycroft tsked. "Perhaps a little sherry is in order."

"Even better!" Sherlock said clapping his hand on his brother's back. John stood still in shock. The two boys left the study laughing and pushing one another by the shoulder.

Miss Sherrinford took her seat once more and let out a sigh. "The holidays do bring out the worst in those two."

"That… was… absolutely cruel. I am… deeply sorry." John said looking out the door.

"Don't be. Does not the tigress breed sons alike?"

"Doesn't give her cubs the right to tear off her head." Miss Sherrinford smiled lightly.

"Would you ever do such a thing to your mother John?"

"She… um… passed away this last summer."

"I'm sorry to hear." She said leaning forward.

"And… no, no I wouldn't. Though… I'm quite certain I'm not sure what just happened."

"I'm afraid it has become quite the tradition around here. Sherlock comes to me in tears over Mycroft. He will get Mycroft and me into a heated argument over something arbitrary and then take his brother's side. Then they'll run off and play for hours. It's the only time they'll be civil towards one another. It's perhaps why I let it go on for so many years."

"What about Sherlock's notes?"

"They are safe and sound. I told him ages ago that I sold the furnishings along with the house. He loves to put on a show."

"What about the photographs?" John asked intrusively.

"Oh, of course." She let out a sigh. "They weren't of any importance, yet Mycroft is fixated on them."

"He said they dated back to the eighteen hundreds."

"Yes, and on his father's side." She furrowed her brows. "He holds on to his past too tightly. He won't let things go." She sighed. "I went through the photographs, boxes and boxes of them, and I left them for my ex-husband to collect. The home owners destroyed them after he failed to claim them."

Miss Sherrinford leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs. "I have been in contact with Mistress Adler. I knew full well about Sherlock being withdrawn from school to enter the rehabilitation facility in Hastings, his failing marks, his absences. I have been trying to keep close. I can't possibly take care of him myself. Not in my state. There are times when getting out of bed sounds like the most dreadful thing that could possibly befall me."

"My mum had that… depression too. Came in waves. Right after my dad passed."

"Both your parents?" John nodded. "But you're so young." John shrugged. "Have a seat."

John looked at the armchair adjacent to her and nodded. He took a seat and sat tensely. He preferred having a straight line for the door if and when the conversation turned.

"I was surprised that Mycroft would bring you of all people out here for Christmas." She leaned forward once more. "I'm not sure whether to be relieved or angered." John gulped. "Sherlock had run out of information that would insight a riot, but when he mentioned you and Mycroft were… I'm not sure how to say it." She closed her eyes and brought her fingertips to her lips. "I was relieved that you weren't like that with my Sherlock. However… I am still distraught."

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He wished Mycroft was here. He was supposed to come out to his mother, not John.

"Do you understand?" She asked with a plea. She rested her chin on her finger tips and opened her eyes to view John's face. It looked as if she were begging John to tell her it wasn't true. "My mother-in-law… she isn't so forgiving… I'm afraid she doesn't approve of such a lifestyle."

"She needn't know." John swallowed hard.

"She wants what any grandmother wants, great grandchildren and for their children to have children and so on. She doesn't want to see the bloodline end."

_Grandmother Holmes is the one holding the strings. No wonder their mother is so cold. It must be catching._

John's phone pinged in his pocket. He looked over at Miss Sherrinford. She nodded and John pulled out his phone.

**Turn on the telly –GL**

"How did he get this number?" John asked out loud. Miss Sherrinford lifted her eyebrow puzzled.

**Turn on the telly, NOW –GL**

"Do you have a television set?" John asked.

"The reception room, down the hall." John shifted to get up. He hesitated. "You are dismissed, go on." She said waving her hand. John nodded and stood up.

He made his hasty retreat and started searching the corridor for signs of Sherlock and Mycroft.

_Bloody mansions. At least I could find my family in my old house. It doesn't matter... get to a telly. What station am I supposed to tune to?_

John pulled out his mobile. He got turned round and was suddenly lost in the sea of closed doors.

"Shit." He cursed under his breath. He typed a quick message to Greg.

**What station?**

He started turning in circles. He found the staircase and tapped his finger on the railing.

_How am I so poor at land navigation? It's a bloody house for God's sake!_

A slender figure materialized out of nowhere and John felt his heart jump. He near dropped his phone and his breath hitched in his throat. Grandmother Holmes was right beside him.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to give you a fright." She said gliding away from him, seeming to float in her evening gown.

"I-I… I need to get to the room with the telly."

"Ah yes, let me show you the way." She said turning smoothly. John followed awkwardly, clunking behind. Her feet didn't make a sound as she walked the tile floor. John was beginning to wonder if she was a ghost.

If the boys' mother was intimidating, their grandmother was petrifying. She could turn a man to stone with one look. Perhaps that's what happened to Mr. Holmes. He could be a statue in the garden.

John shuddered at the thought. They reached a set of double doors and the grandmother pulled them open with ease. She stepped aside to let John in and shut the doors behind them. John jumped when he heard the doors click shut.

_Why must the doors be drawn closed?_

The reception room was a cluster of furniture and the room appeared to serve all purposes. It had a sofa and television set, a piano in the corner, a circular table with seating for nine, and a liquor cabinet which was cracked open slightly.

_Sherlock and Mycroft were here._

John went for the television set. He ran his finger along the top of the set and searched for the on button.

"I'm afraid I don't know how to work the infernal contraption myself." Grandmother Holmes said crossing her arms. John spotted a remote control. He grasped it firmly and pressed the on button.

The fireplace lit behind him. He clenched his teeth.

_You have got to be kidding me._

Grandmother Holmes was becoming rather amused with John's struggle.

_You could do something! Not just stand there and watch._

John felt like a complete fool fumbling about with technology while the old witch sat back idly, scrutinizing him with her gaze. Finally he found a small black remote and when he pressed the on button the television set clicked on. John didn't have to search for the station because the news was on every channel. He read the bottom scroll under each newscaster, the same on every station.

_Crime of the Century?_


	28. Chapter 28

"They're calling it the crime of the century! The Tower of London, Pentonville Prison, the Bank of Bloody England! All broken into at the same time. All by the same man."

"Sebastian Moran." Mycroft said in awe.

"He's in police custody!" John shouted with excitement. "They found him, in the bloody case, wearing the crown jewels. They have it on video. It's!" John found himself flustered and unable to finish his thoughts. "It's as if Christmas has come early! There is no court in the country that wouldn't find the man guilty!"

"This is the news of a lifetime!" Mycroft shouted with a slight slur. He had had a good sum of sherry before John had found the two of them in the kitchen. Sherlock had a stoic look on his face as he absent mindedly swirled his sherry in his wine goblet.

John was near jumping with joy. "Sherlock! Have a little Christmas cheer! All our problems are solved." Sherlock leaned against the island cabinet and sipped his sherry with a sad look on his face. "I don't know how or why, but at least-"

"… he ended up in custody." Sherlock gave him a look.

"Don't do that." John said crossing his arms.

"Do what?"

"The look."

"Look?" Sherlock asked.

"You're doing the look again."

"Well, I can't see it, can I?" Sherlock said with a sneer. John held up a silver platter that was resting on the kitchen island so Sherlock could get a good look at himself. Sherlock shrugged. "It's my face." He said plainly.

"Yes, and it's doing a thing. You're doing a 'we both know what's really going on here' face."

"Well, we _do."_ Sherlock said furrowing his brows and shaking his head at John like he was an idiot.

"No I don't, which is why I find 'the face' so annoying."

Sherlock let out a heavy berated sigh. "Must I explain everything?" Mycroft tumbled slightly back into the stove.

"Yes well, I am just as… hck." Mycroft hiccuped. "Just as interested as the next man."

"Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. You both are so… vacant." Sherlock said with a smile. His smile faded quickly. "If Moran wanted the Jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there." Sherlock put down his wine glass. "Somehow this is part of his scheme."

"The clock-wise bomb?" John asked.

"Yes. When I started my in depth research on Moran, I looked into every report I could get my hands on involving civilian and military casualties from improvised explosive devices overseas over the past decade."

"My God that must have been quite the task." John said grabbing Sherlock's goblet and taking a sip of his sherry. He grimaced, he was never a fan of fortified wine.

"Not when you know what to look for." Sherlock grinned smugly. "A clock-work bomb stands out in a sea of wires." Sherlock grabbed his glass from John's lips mid-sip, causing John to dribble slightly. "Masterfully crafted, positively beautiful. With no fail-safes. Well save one. However, he has likely found a way around it by now."

"Which is?" Mycroft asked pouring himself another glass.

"What makes clocks tick?"

"Escapement of the balance wheel." Mycroft said raising his eyebrows. John looked towards him in confusion. "It allows stored energy in the coil to escape bit by bit, without it the coil collapses, releasing all the energy at once." Mycroft giggled, his face turning red. "Boom."

"My God Mycroft." Sherlock said running his hands through his hair. "So he _has_ found a way around the fail safe?"

"But of course!" Mycroft said raising his voice unnecessarily loud. "Your records are quite outdated I'm afraid. Moran's clock-wise bomb has evolved vastly in a short amount of time." Mycroft chuckled.

"How?" Sherlock asked digging his nails into his head. "The man is a complete idiot! How can he make such intricate works? He can't even create a proper chlorine bomb! They were able to use the gas effectively in World War one but the idiot didn't consider delivery by artillery shell? Did he sleep through his military history courses? Are we not supposed to learn from our past?" Sherlock groaned and brought his head to rest against the island counter.

"Brother, brother." Mycroft slurred giving Sherlock a pat on the back. "Moran is locked away safely! He is so blatantly guilty of the crime of the century. He'll be given multiple life sentences. He's no longer an issue. Now have some sherry. Celebrate! Tomorrow is Christmas day. Joy to the world!"

"Justice is blind…" Sherlock said into the air.

"Yes but-" John started.

"No! It is absolutely blind! Moran could be wearing the bloody crown on his head during the trial and they'd let him go scot-free." Sherlock shook his head. "He won't mount a defence and they'll let him walk away."

"Sherlock! That is the ultimate pessimistic statement." John said. "Have some faith in the court system."

"Yes, let's set back and watch as the clock turns. We're all so safe and cosy now that Sebastian Moran is behind bars. It isn't as if the ring leader has any circus clowns to carry on with the show." Sherlock scoffed taking another swig of sherry. His hands were shaking.

"Now, now Sherlock. Don't fret." Mycroft said placing his goblet down. "Your little boyfriend won't be harmed. I'll see to it he returns to Dublin and is placed in a nice foster home."

"After he's subjected to your interrogations?" Sherlock hissed.

"Naturally."

"He won't talk."

"We have our ways." Mycroft said with a soft grin. Sherlock glared at him.

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Sure he isn't." Mycroft said pretending to zip his lips shut. "Just as John is my colleague." Mycroft laughed and looked at John. John shook his head.

"Will you have him detained then?"

"I see no other solution. He's without a fixed abode. He can come and go as he pleases, as long as he is willing to cooperate." Mycroft said trying to keep his composure as he swayed back and forth. Sherlock looked to John. John looked deep into Sherlock's eyes.

"No." John said turning away. "No!" He shouted for emphasis. "Not in a million years."

"John, he is a refugee."

"And a sick fuck. I've heard stories." John said waving his hands sporadically trying to make a point. "Plus he got you hooked on the needle."

"It was the Baker Street irregulars that supplied it. I was only trying to show my defences were lowered, that I was easily controlled. I was entirely-"

"Out of control." John finished. "You were going to run off with Moran." John shook his head. "He's a spy for God's sake. A traitor."

"Is Michael Dimmock a traitor as well?"

"Dimmock was kidnapped!"

"And so was Jim." Sherlock said trying to sell his point. "He didn't choose to be a slave."

John held his head in his hands and squeezed. He growled and let go. "Why do I even bother?" Mycroft came up behind John and wrapped him up into a reverse embrace. He hummed and started swaying back and forth to imaginary music.

"You've gone and upset poor John." Mycroft said with a slight giggle. He buried his face in John's neck and let out a loud purr.

"Mycroft stop." John said reaching a hand back to rest on Mycroft's head. Mycroft began nuzzling into John's neck. Sherlock turned away in hurt and anger. He stormed out the back door and out on to the garden terrace.

Mycroft's nuzzling turned to nipping. He ran his hands up the bottom of John's shirt and started stroking his abs.

"Mycroft, really we shouldn't… Sherlock's-" Mycroft's hands went south to John's groin and he started groping John's bulge.

"Mycroft!" John knew he hadn't said it himself; someone else was in the room with them. He jolted and near knocked Mycroft over. Grandmother Holmes had come to apparition in the kitchen. John caught Mycroft as he stumbled backwards and near cracked his head open on the kitchen cabinets.

_This is how I die. At the hands of a gran._

"Please, please. He's just had a bit too much to drink." John pleaded holding Mycroft up.

"You didn't seem to mind." She stated with fire behind her eyes.

"It doesn't mean anything!" John said frantically.

"What?" Mycroft slurred bumping into John causing both of them to stumble. "Our love means nothing to you?" Mycroft asked with a grimace.

"Love?" John and Grandmother Holmes asked in unison.

"That's right lub." Mycroft said. He grinned drunkenly and rested his head on top of John's. He pulled John into a tight hug.

_Why must everyone who loves me torture me so?_


	29. Chapter 29

"Merry Christmas Mycroft."

"Shut up Sherlock." Mycroft sneered. He rested his elbow against the car window and started rubbing his forehead.

"Serves you right. Getting us thrown out." Sherlock said with a concealed grin. "And on Christmas, of all days." He said with loads of sarcasm. Mycroft snarled.

Sherlock had taken the centre seat, absorbing all of the tension in the small car, and revelling in the drama. Their paternal grandmother had been livid when she found her eldest grandson molesting his colleague in the kitchen. Mycroft's mother hadn't been too keen on the whole affair when she caught word of it moments later.

She pretended to be shocked by the news that her son was 'that way'. However, when their grandmother proposed they be banished from the estate, their mother was the first to protest. Sherlock had missed the whole ordeal but being the gawper he was, he had to come in and see what the commotion was when he started hearing shouting.

John was caught in the cross-fire of the all woman firing squad that was trying to gun down his inebriated boyfriend. Mycroft had started to sober up and was trying to cover his actions as a simple drunken mistake. His mother looked at Mycroft with such disappointment it broke John's heart.

He couldn't help but be reminded of the day Clara and Harry stood up to his parents. It was frightening then and he wasn't even a part of it. He wished he could hide under his bed once more and will the shouting to stop.

The worst was the look on Sherlock's face as he stood in the corner of the room watching the world burn before him. His grin was positively malicious, he was delighted by chaos; he breathed it in as if it was precious oxygen. He lived for mayhem, he loved disorder.

To most Sherlock would appear to be a psychopath. A sadist. Yet John knew precisely why Sherlock enjoyed watching anarchy unfold. Predictability and order were boring. He needed problems; he needed work, the most abstruse cryptogram or intricate analysis. When the world was in disarray Sherlock was in his prime. He craved mental exaltation and abhorred the dull routine of existence.

This was his proper atmosphere, amid shouting and high anxiety. It was as if he was in the centre of a ticking time bomb, primed to explode, and he was the only one with the means to defuse the situation. Sherlock set back and took it all in.

John kept looking back to Sherlock, praying he would use his wit, get him out of the line of fire before a stray bullet took him down.

"I should have known. Colleague indeed." Grandmother Holmes said crossing her arms. Her gaze could burn a whole through solid steel. Her attention turned to John. "I know you and your _type_." She spat. She took a step towards John. "You must take great pride in corrupting young _respectable_ gentlemen." She said looking John over. She uncrossed her arms.

"Oh I was already well corrupted before John came along." Mycroft said waving his hand to dismiss the idea.

"Mycroft!" His mother shouted. It was about the only word she could get in edgeways.

"There have been others?" Grandmother Holmes asked in shock.

"No! No." Mycroft said shaking his head. "Well yes." He said scratching the back of his head. "But that is entirely beside the point."

"How long have you been keeping this from us?" His mother asked with concern.

"For twenty-one years now I suppose." Mycroft shrugged. John slapped his face with the palm of his hand. "Oh the sex." He said looking at John who turned bright red. "God, ages and ages." Mycroft started counting his fingers. "A good seven years!"

_Mycroft! You idiot! Shut up!_

"Violet, I… I feel faint." Grandmother Holmes stammered. She held on to the kitchen island.

"Oh poor, poor grandmother." Sherlock said strolling across the kitchen to hold up his grandmother by her elbows. "Look what you've done to her Mycroft!"

"What I've done?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock fanned his grandmother with his hand.

"Must you be so insensitive? The woman is obviously distraught." He helped his Grandmother to stand properly. "Her eldest grandson a flamer, who would have thought." Sherlock patted his grandmother's hand. "Don't fret gran, I can always carry on the family name." Sherlock shook his head. "For shame Mycroft."

"Oh that is rich." Mycroft said rolling his eyes, he started laughing. "You! Carry on the family name?" He snorted.

"Someone has to be the man of this house." Grandmother Holmes said lifting her nose in the air. "I must request that you and your… _colleague_ … leave first thing in the morning." She turned to face Sherlock. "Sherly dear, you may stay as long as you please." She let out a sigh. "At least someone in this house understands family values." Sherlock grinned wickedly.

"Of course grandmother. Family is all we have in the end."

John and Mycroft retired to their separate bedrooms as Sherlock and his grandmother stayed up half the night chatting away in the study, laughing it up. Their laughter carried through the hollow halls and reverberated through the air vent and into John's bedroom.

John pulled the pillow over his head, feeling sick to his stomach. He heard a gentle rap at his door. He shut his eyes and breathed gently, feigning sleep. He heard the door crack open and shut gently. There was a soft tap of bare feet crossing the hardwood floors and the creak of bedsprings as Mycroft climbed into his bed.

He heard the bed sheets rustle as Mycroft settled in beside him. Mycroft slid his arm under John's elbow and ran his hand down John's stomach and let it rest on his abdomen. He brought him in close, burying his face into the nape of John's neck. He breathed deep, tickling the hairs on the back of John's neck, giving him goose bumps.

"I'm sorry." Mycroft mumbled into John's neck. John lay silently. He felt less at ease in Mycroft's arms. They weren't much stronger than his own and nothing like Greg's strong protective arms.

John had come to find Mycroft drew more comfort from him than vice-versa. John had an innate ability to sooth people who were in great pain. It was only natural that he should become a doctor.

He had great empathy for Mycroft. John often pushed aside his emotions but Mycroft buried them so deep he often lacked any feelings at all. Over the past few months John had seen glimpses of Mycroft's humanity only to have them disappear in an instant.

The rising politician had no compassion for victims of horrific crimes. Like Michael Dimmock, who they retrieved, just days earlier, from the basement of an active industrial warehouse in Bucharest along with twenty other boys. Of the twenty-one boys, Dimmock was the only one still in police custody. Mycroft had requested he be detained for further questioning after he failed to supply adequate information on those involved in his trafficking.

"Mycroft! He's suffering from post traumatic stress!" John had shouted. "He's scared!"

"I am merely trying to gather insurmountable evidence for our case. Don't dabble in matters you don't understand."

John didn't understand why the government had to torture both the victims and the perpetrators of crimes. It was beyond him how Mycroft could be so cold when he was at work but warm in his bed. It was paradoxical.

John found humanity in the Holmes brothers where others would see barbarism. He could see through Mycroft's façade and look past Sherlock's anti-social behaviour because John was a bloody fucking Saint. At least that's what Mycroft said he was.

Mycroft still wasn't completely sober the next morning when his grandmother barged in to find him and John curled up in bed. She started shouting some choice words at Mycroft and used quite a list of derogatory terms, some of which John had never heard before. When her attention turned on John, questioning his Christianity, Mycroft blurted out "Oh piss off! He's a bloody fucking Saint!"

Apparently Mycroft adopted a working class Welsh accent when he was sobering up. And apparently Grandmother Holmes had a hell of a grip, the way Mycroft was howling as he was dragged by his ear down the steps and out the front door.

Mycroft was left alone in his under, waiting for the car outside while John packed up their things. He tried apologising to Miss Sherrinford but she wouldn't hear it.

Sherlock was in quite a chipper mood as he ran down the steps to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. He even hugged his grandmother and gave her a kiss on the cheek before making his way to the car. John shoved Mycroft's clothes into his hands and got in the car first.

He was steaming with rage. He couldn't believe how Mycroft could behave so poorly. The man could charm the stripes off a tiger but a bit too much drink and he became… Greg!

The gravity of the situation hit Mycroft halfway back to London. He groaned as he rubbed his temples. John thought it was about time to pipe up.

"That was the most embarrassing situation... I've ever had to endure." John said gritting his teeth. He didn't even want to look at Mycroft.

"I don't know what came over me." Mycroft moaned.

"I don't even know who you are any more." John said crossing his arms and slinking down in his seat.

"Oh that is so gay." Sherlock chuckled.

"Shut up Sherlock." They said in unison. Sherlock stretched out his arms and placed them behind both men.

"Oh come on, where's your holiday spirit?" Sherlock grinned and looked at Mycroft. "Why, I do believe Mycroft had enough spirit for all of us last night." He jeered. "Has he got himself a little hang-over?" Sherlock said ruffling Mycroft's hair.

"Stop it Sherlock." Mycroft hissed through clenched teeth.

"Is he not the picture of the perfect boyfriend?" Sherlock asked John. "Getting sloshed on Christmas eve, pronouncing his undying love to you in front of our homophobic grandmother. Bringing our mother to tears in the foyer as we were whisked away on Christmas day." Sherlock patted Mycroft's shoulder "Don't worry, Grandmother sneaked me my present. A hideous knit jumper. Probably had a matching one for you Mycroft." Sherlock grinned. "Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing we were banished from the estate after all."

"You could have stayed." Mycroft hissed.

"And miss out on your misery?" Sherlock scoffed. "John haven't you anything to say to your _boyfriend_?"

"Shut up Sherlock." John said looking out the window.

"Now, now John. You know I can't be your boyfriend, I'm still a minor." Sherlock chuckled. "Though I'm highly flattered."

"You know what I fucking meant." John hissed.

"Touchy, touchy." Sherlock said stretching his arms up and brushing his hands against the ceiling. Sherlock sat in silence for all of two minutes before piping up again. "Perhaps we can have Christmas drinks at our flat. What do you think John? Of course you're always invited Mycroft."

"I have more pressing matters to attend to at home." Mycroft said.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm done talking to both of you."

"Aw, why?" Sherlock whined. John remained silent. "I see." Sherlock said leaning back in his chair. "You're mad at Mycroft for making a scene, so you're taking it out on me. Makes perfect sense."

"Will you just shut up?" John shouted, his hands shook as he brought his hands to his head. He started rocking back and forth in his seat clutching on to his head.

He stopped suddenly and remained motionless as a blissful silence swept the car. He let out a sigh and released his head. The car remained quiet for the duration of the drive. They pulled up to Baker Street and John jumped out first, leaving his suitcase in the boot.

He knocked on the door and waited impatiently as Mrs. Hudson fiddled with the door-lock.

"John! I wasn't expecting you two back so soon. How was your trip?"

"Fine, fine." John said shortly pushing her aside and heading straight for the stairs. He found the door unlocked and gritted his teeth.

John walked in to find everything in its proper place. He stormed in and made way straight to the mantel. He lifted the skull and dug into it via the foramen magnum to pull out a small wrapped present.

He clutched it tight in his hand. He took a bowler's approach and threw it as hard as he could against the wall across the room, nearly hitting Sherlock as he walked in.

"What the hell was that?" Sherlock said looking in shock at the dent in the wall. He knelt down to recover the item.

"Your bloody Christmas present." John said through clenched teeth. Sherlock looked at John with concern. He held the present gingerly in his oversized hands. He un-wrapped the torn paper to reveal a piece of amber, cracked along the top, with a fossilized bee set in the middle. Sherlock thumbed the crack sorrowfully.

"But… I didn't get you anything…" Sherlock said looking at the specimen.

"Yeah and you know what? I bought the damned thing with my money! My _own_ money. Not some bloody money I stole from some drug-lord." John shook his head. Sherlock didn't have the heart to tell John that a hit-man was hardly of rank to be considered a 'drug-lord'. He just kept stroking the broken present.

"Flight of the Bumblebee?" Sherlock asked sadly holding up his fossilized amber.

"Oh shut up Sherlock." John said cracking a smile. Sherlock stood up clutching his present.

"I adore it." Sherlock said throwing it into the air and catching it on its way down. "Now I'll have to get you a present."

"No Sherlock… Don't."

"No, no. I insist." Sherlock said. "Ah-ha, I know! I'll make one."

"What are you? Three?" John scoffed.

"No you'll love it. Give me four hours." Sherlock said rushing to the kitchen, grabbing a pair of kitchen sheers, and running into his bedroom.

"Oi! Didn't your mum tell you not to run with scissors?" John shouted with a smile. "The nut." He said taking his seat. He leaned back and let out a heavy sigh. It felt good to be home.

_Four hours of silence, the best Christmas gift of all._


	30. Chapter 30

John felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked awake. He squinted and rubbed his eyes and a blurry Sherlock came into focus. John stretched his neck side to side. He'd fallen asleep on his chair after silencing his phone. He took a look at his watch, gave it a flick, and listened to it tick.

_That cannot be right, it's half past six. I must have been asleep for… near eleven hours._

"Mm." He grunted.

"Have a nice nap?" Sherlock asked.

"Nap? I think I just emerged from a bloody coma." John chuckled.

"Here." Sherlock said jamming a piece of wrapped up newspaper into John's hand.

"Wow, went all out did we?" John smiled at the hideously wrapped present. He tore it open gently, searching for the present inside. It fell out the bottom and onto his lap. John looked at it puzzled. He picked up the piece of metal and looked at it carefully.

"It's a crucifix!" Sherlock said excitedly. "I know how much you like Jesus and… things." Sherlock bit his bottom lip and waited in anticipation for John's response. John squinted at the intricate details.

"It's um…" Sherlock leaned forward. "Celtic…" John said sliding his thumb around the ring that surrounded the intersection.

"Yeah I know!" Sherlock said taking the cross from John's hands. "The Zodiac Killer used to sign his letters to the newspapers with one." Sherlock said looking over his craftsmanship.

"That's lovely." John said with a grimace. Sherlock handed it back to him. John turned it around a few times, it was a pretty cross though it had a funny pattern engraved on it, like it was shattered into pieces and put back together. "Looks a bit like a mosaic."

"Oh yes." Sherlock grimaced. "It's one of those… 'meaning' things." Sherlock waved his hand. "Symbolizes a broken and fragmented humanity which is somehow turned into a work of beauty under the artful hands of the all-mighty." John looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock shrugged. "I did my research."

"You know, Christmas was always my favourite holiday growing up." John said smiling at the cross. Sherlock took a seat on the arm of John's chair.

"Isn't it every child's? Materialism?"

"Well yes of course presents were always a plus." Sherlock gave him a look. "Ok, they were more than a plus." John smiled. "I'd wait up all night, unable to sleep. Well that and my sister snored." John laughed. He leaned back in his seat. "I was the luckiest kid. Every Christmas I got… exactly what I wanted." John grinned. "I was convinced there was Santa Claus well beyond the normal age where kids stop believing." John looked up at Sherlock. "When did you stop believing in Santa?"

"Age four."

"Aww… why?" John asked.

"Mycroft told me there was one and I didn't believe him." John burst out laughing. "I disproved the Santa myth to my whole class in nursery school, I made them all non-believers."

"You must have been a very convincing toddler."

"Oh I was positively adorable. I could have gotten away with murder." Sherlock thought and lifted his eyebrows. "In fact." John shifted uncomfortably. "What?"

"You didn't, did you?"

"It was only a gold fish."

"Mycroft's?"

"Naturally." Sherlock chuckled. "He believes to this day that he overfed it and caused its untimely death."

"Poor thing." John pouted.

"Who, Mycroft or the fish?"

"The fish." They both laughed.

"I'm famished. What are we having for our Christmas feast?" Sherlock asked patting his stomach.

"I think we're down to our last tin of beans and we might have some bread… though it has likely moulded by now."

"Didn't you do any shopping while I was away?" Sherlock poked John in the belly. "Domestic bliss must suit you, John. You've put on three pounds since I left."

"Two and half." John corrected.

"Mm. Three." Sherlock grinned.

"Well we did go out almost every night."

"Italian?"

"French."

"Hm." Sherlock hummed. "Romantique."

"Pas vraiment." John sighed.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked with a sigh.

"He was always distracted at dinner and we could never keep the conversation off you for more than five minutes."

"Miss me?" John threw his head back on his chair.

"Terribly." John said with a pout. Sherlock slid down on to his lap.

"Need I say I missed you as well?"

"Yes." John said with a smile.

"Well… I missed you too." Sherlock rested his head on John's chest.

"You're just like a bloody… Oh Sherlock." John pushed Sherlock away. "I neglected to mention, dumb-arse ran off. I'm sorry."

"Oh no! Not dumb-arse." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He'll show up." He shrugged. "Or he's dead. One of the two." Sherlock thought a moment. "Or both."

"Oh that's distasteful Sherlock." John moaned. Sherlock lounged out on John's lap, letting his feet swing over the arm of the chair.

"You know, when I'm fully grown, this isn't going to be as comfortable."

"Who said it was now? You're bony arse is digging into my thigh." Sherlock let out a low throaty laugh as he leaned his head back over the arm of the chair. John flicked his exposed Adam's apple.

"I do wish Mrs. Hudson would figure out how to text." Sherlock said staring up at the ceiling.

"Why?"

"I don't feel like shouting down the stairs."

"Could you be any more lazy?" Sherlock's arms went limp at the elbows and he sprawled out completely flaccid on John's lap. His head lolled to one side. "You twat." John chuckled.

"Mrs. Hudson is holding out on us."

"How do you figure?" John asked

"She's made a roast."

"How big?"

"Enough to feed four."

John narrowed his eyes. "Ooh the bitch." Sherlock chuckled. "Should we pillage her flat?"

"Take no prisoners?" Sherlock grinned.

"Is her sister in town?" John asked.

"Of course, can't you smell the Lady Grey?"

"No I don't. I'm not a bloody hound."

"Hound, why say hound? A bit archaic." Sherlock questioned.

"What's wrong with the word hound?" John asked.

"Nothing is wrong with it. It's just a strange choice of word."

"I think it's a lovely word. An onomatopoeia." John grinned. "Sounds just like a dog. A _hound."_ John howled. Sherlock chuckled.

" _Hound."_ Sherlock repeated in his lowest baritone. The boys started laughing and howling at the moon. "Aaa-ooo" They were having quite a laugh until there was a rap at the door.

"Boys! Keep it down! I have company!" Mrs. Hudson shouted through the door.

"Shall we?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock nodded and rolled off John's lap and landed on the floor with a thud. They both ran for the door.

Sherlock reached it first and swung it open to see Mrs. Hudson heading down the stairs. Sherlock grinned maliciously. "Ah Mrs. Hudson! Merry Christmas. How's the roast?" Sherlock asked rushing down the stairs towards her.

"Sherlock don't you dare!" Mrs. Hudson said holding on to the railing.

"I would never…" Sherlock said holding his hand to his chest. "You believe the worst of me."

John took advantage of the diversion and rushed under Mrs. Hudson's outreached arm and down the stairs. In her bewilderment she let go of the railing and Sherlock slid past her on the left.

"Boys!" She shouted as they rushed into her flat. She held on to her bad hip as she hobbled down the stairs as fast as she could manage. She reached her flat in record speed and slammed the door shut behind her.

John and Sherlock had already stuffed half the roast into a bowl. Sherlock had torn into the baguette and was chewing on a large piece. John was about to shovel some roasted vegetables into the vessel when Mrs. Hudson folded her arms and pressed her back against the door.

"Sit." She commanded.

"Ah come on." Sherlock mumbled through a mouthful of bread.

"I won't have you coming in 'ere, ransacking the place, leaving a trail of destruction in your wake. Now sit."

"Mrs. Hudson." John whined. Mrs. Hudson's sister was in shock, seated at the table. She wasn't expecting two young boys to come rushing in attempting to steal Christmas dinner.

"It's Christmas, and you know what that means?" Both boys shook their heads. "It's the one time of year you _have_ to be nice to me."

"Was this in the lease?" Sherlock asked John. John shrugged. Mrs. Hudson's sister had her elbows drawn up in a defensive position, unsure of her own safety.

Sherlock let out an overly dramatic sigh. "Fine." He said placing the bread back on the table. John put down the bowl with the roast. Sherlock took the seat across from Mrs. Hudson's sister and John went to the sitting room to drag in the two fold-out chairs.

Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson's sister a little wink, making her furrow her brows and look to her sister for assurance.

"Sherlock, be kind." She scolded, flicking the back of his head. John set up the chairs and Sherlock stood to take the one closest to Mrs. Hudson's sister so Mrs. Hudson could have the chair with the padding.

"You know, you could have helped me with setting up the chairs." John sighed taking his seat next to Mrs. Hudson.

"I know." Sherlock said staring at Mrs. Hudson's sister. John gave him a back-handed slap to his arm.

"Would you quit being a creep and eat."

"What? No prayer?" Sherlock asked picking up a piece of carrot and shoving it into his mouth. John grabbed his hand and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean…" John grabbed Mrs. Hudson's hand as well and nodded for Sherlock to hold Mrs. Hudson's sister's hand. Sherlock gave her a malicious grin and reached out for her hand.

She grabbed his outreached hand tentatively.

"Lord, we thank you for the gifts of your bounty which we enjoy at this table. As you have provided for us in the past, so may you sustain us throughout our lives. While we enjoy your gifts, may we never forget the needy and those in want."

"Ahmen." The sisters said in unison. They let go of one another's hands.

"Bout time." Sherlock huffed as he reached once more for the bread. "Mrs. Hudson, do you have any Blood of Christ to wash down his body?" Sherlock asked raising his eyebrows as he took a bite into the hard bread.

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said with a slight whine. She let out a sigh. "How's your mother?"

"Peachy." Sherlock mumbled through a mouthful of food.

"You two are back early, wasn't expecting you til tomorrow." Mrs. Hudson said nonchalantly. She just couldn't help but pry, it was in her nature. Her sister's as well. No bit of gossip was safe with them. They spread gossip like it was jam on toast.

"Mycroft decided to have his coming out speech on Christmas Eve. While piss drunk." Sherlock huffed.

"Oh dear." Mrs. Hudson said shifting in her seat. "Well not that it matters. We get all sorts 'round here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." Sherlock smiled knowingly at John who scowled back.

_Don't you dare._

"Well my paternal grandmother wasn't too keen on it." Sherlock said sawing at his meat. Mrs. Hudson slid his plate away and started cutting it for him.

"Such a shame. People these days." She tutted. "There isn't a thing wrong with being gay."

"Not a thing." Mrs. Hudson's sister repeated. "Good for the environment." She said proudly.

"How so?" John asked with a smirk.

"World's crowded nough as is. We could use some more people not contributing to the world's over-population." She said with a nod. "They're doing a service to their country."

"Oh please." Mrs. Hudson said sliding Sherlock back his plate.

"You know, if they would make it as hard as it is to get married and have children as it is for the homosexuals, straight couples wouldn't get divorced as much as they do, have unwanted children." Mrs. Hudson's sister sat up straight in her chair. "World could do with some more rainbows." John smiled.

_The unrepressed wisdom of a spinster._


	31. Chapter 31

The days leading up to the New Year were the best John had had in a long time. Like the calm after a violent storm. He had avoided confrontations with Mycroft who had left for Belarus shortly after arriving in London. They only had time for a chaste kiss the day he boarded his plane and flew off.

John and Sherlock had filled their time with mindless activities. They avoided triggers like Cluedo and science experiments in favour of more calm activities: like fighting each other with old umbrellas.

"En garde you rat bastard!" John shouted trying to stab Sherlock in the chest with the point of his brolly.

"Allez you twat!" Sherlock countered with a smack on the wrist. John winced.

"Touché" John said rubbing his wrist.

"Prêt?" Sherlock asked with a grin. John stood on guard once more. "Allez!" Sherlock shouted and lunged forward. John retreated back to avoid the point of the umbrella. Sherlock advanced and attacked with a downward swing. John easily parried. However in a simple riposte, Sherlock hit his target square in the chest.

"Ouch!" John said rubbing his sternum. "That hurt."

"Encore?" Sherlock asked with a smug grin.

"Une fois de plus."

The boys fought back and forth for an hour. John lost count of how many times he had been struck. By the end of the assault, John was battered and bruised and Sherlock was all but fluent in French.

"Your French is nearly as abhorred as your fencing skills." Sherlock stated, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Your teacher was of Scottish origin if I'm not mistaken."

"You aren't." John panted placing his umbrella in the umbrella holder by the door. He straightened his back and let out a groan. "Don't think she was well qualified to teach English let alone French."

"Yes, well, the French 'R' is enunciated or rather rolled from the back of the throat, not the tip of the tongue." Sherlock said snobbishly.

"I'll roll my R's however I like."

"It isn't proper."

"Oh yeah? Well you aren't a proper Englishman." John said turning his nose up to Sherlock.

"How am I not?"

"You don't follow football. Don't own a kit and have probably never even seen a match in person."

"Oh God. How does that make you English?" Sherlock asked with a slight gag.

"You might as well be deported."

"I played polo, once. Therefore, I'm the most _English_ person in the room."

"Playing polo doesn't-"

"Neither does watching football." Sherlock finished.

"Name one team."

"England!" Sherlock shouted.

"Bloody… fucking technicality." John snorted. "You know polo's a Persian sport."

"Really? Hm… don't care!" Sherlock said turning away.

"Yeah you do! Cos you're wrong!" John shouted at the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock walked straight through the kitchen. "Sherlock Holmes is wrong everybody!" John shouted into the air. "He's wrong, wrong, wrong."

"Real mature John!" Sherlock shouted slamming his bedroom door shut.

Sherlock came out later to watch the second half of _The Avengers_ with John.

"Who's that?"

"Iron man." John said shoving popcorn into his mouth.

"Who's that?"

"Thor."

"Who's that?"

"Sherlock, how's about you shut the fuck up and watch the film?" John asked with a false grin. Sherlock took the bag away from John and started shovelling handfuls of popcorn into his mouth before looking at the bag with disgust.

"Non-buttered?" Sherlock looked down at John.

"Yeah?"

"You sick bastard." Sherlock said shoving the bag back in John's hands. He left once more to his room.

The rest of their holiday went on in a similar fashion. Sherlock would come out of his room, they'd piss about and then he'd retreat once more, only to come out later on to see what John was doing without him.

It was nice not having to worry about school or the end of the world. John felt he could get used to this way of life.

Sherlock hadn't once pressured him for sex or tried to jump him in the hallway.

_Maybe he's ill or perhaps the rehab centre was a good reset for him._

John didn't worry much about Sherlock getting back on the needle over the winter interim. He never left the flat without John, even though he could if he wanted to. Sherlock seemed perfectly entertained mucking about with John. It was nice… everything was nice… bit too 'nice'.

John was starting to itch from the lack of anything to occupy him mentally. He felt his brain start to rot as they watched the ten millionth DVD of the break. His eyes felt like they were going to ooze out of his orbital cavities.

"Sherlock… I am so fucking bored…" He said on New Year's Eve. He ran his hands through his hair in a very Sherlockesque manner. "Unh I need social contact."

"Is this not social?" Sherlock asked leaning back on his hands. He was seated in the middle of the sitting room, the centre of attention, a focal point amidst all the clutter.

"I mean with more people. Not just you and I." John said throwing his head against the back of his chair trying to dispel the nagging boredom that was making his head feel numb. It was as though all his sensations had gone dull from being cooped up for so long.

John had lasted near a full week of what would kill Sherlock in twenty minutes normally. He was surprised Sherlock hadn't gone AWOL.

"Who do we call? You haven't any friends." Sherlock sighed.

"I do so." John scowled.

"Mike?" Sherlock scoffed. "Text him. I'll tell you what he will reply. Go on." Sherlock said waving his hand. John rolled his eyes and pulled out his mobile. He typed a message to Mike.

**What are you up to? Drinks tonight?**

Sherlock smirked and steepled his fingers. He brought his finger tips to rest on his lips.

"Hm. Sorry John, made plans with the family, maybe some other time."

John phone pinged. He sighed and read the message on the screen out loud. "Sorry John, have plans with the fam." He stopped. "Ooh tough luck Sherlock, no mention of making plans for some other time." John smacked his lips. "He must hate me. Can't blame him."

"Hate is such a strong word." Sherlock said into the air. "It so perfectly captures Mike's feelings for you, don't you think?" Sherlock chuckled. John threw the union jack pillow at Sherlock's head, missing by a mile. "Oh you cannot win for losing today John!"

"God, I'll just try again." John said scrolling through his phone's contacts. "Hey, do you know how Greg went and got my new number by the way?"

"I gave it to him." Sherlock said plainly.

"Thanks a lot."

"You're welcome." Sherlock responded with false sincerity. "What about your female companions? Surely they'd come over."

"Companions?"

"Fine, your hoes." Sherlock said shortly. "Ponce."

"I don't have hoes." John said indignantly.

"Sure you do! Girls have been all over you since you have admitted you're gay." Sherlock shrugged. "Women love gay men."

"Yeah… wish I was gay when I was straight." John thought a moment. "That made no bloody sense." John shook his head. "Sides, don't have their numbers."

"There isn't one female on your list of contacts?" Sherlock questioned, lifting one brow.

"My sister."

"Dykes don't count."

"Sherlock." John whined. "Don't call her that."

"Just a word." Sherlock said rolling his eyes slightly.

"So's fruit. Knob-jockey. Cock-gobbler. Bender. Poof-"

"Backgammon player." Sherlock added.

"Huh?"

"A gentleman of the back door." Sherlock said raising his eyebrows.

"Remind me never to play backgammon with you." John said shaking his head. "Bloody pervert."

"You started it." Sherlock frowned. "Well, now that we've gone through your dreadfully long list of friends, we can go through mine!" Sherlock said with a grin. He pulled out his mobile. "Ah yes, you, Mycroft, and oh look Jim! Let's give him a call!"

"Sherlock, no. I'm not having him over."

"Why not? You said you're bored, in need of human contact. Jim's human last I checked." Sherlock said pressing his phone's screen. He held the phone up to his ear.

"Sherlock." John whined. Sherlock held up a finger to shush him. John stuck out his tongue.

"Ah, Jim dear. What would you say to New Years drinks?" Sherlock said with an overwhelmingly friendly tone. John grimaced. "Of course." Sherlock said. He looked at John and bit his lower lip. He raised his eyebrows up and down and then grinned as he listened to the other end of the line. "No. No. Brother's out of town; won't be back til next year." Sherlock grinned as John rolled his eyes and gagged. "Just me and the cousin." Sherlock said twirling a finger through one of his curls and pulling. He let it fall. "Mhmm." He hummed. "Mmm." He responded.

"Oh God, I can't take another minute of this." John said in disgust. "Bloody teenagers." He said standing. He walked over to Sherlock who was still fiddling with his hair as he listened to the other end of the line. John grabbed a single hair and pulled. Sherlock scowled and reached out to punch John in the shin. John evaded his attack and taunted him.

"No, it's fine." Sherlock grunted as he reached to try attack John once more as he circled around him. "Sorry, my cousin is being a pain. One moment." Sherlock put down the phone and lunged at John's leg, teeth barred. He growled as he clutched on to John's leg with both hands and threatened to sink his teeth in.

"All right! All right! I give." John giggled, trying to shake his leg free, hopping on one foot. Sherlock let go and glowered as he picked up the mobile once more. "Sorry about that. Bloody doctor types. Can't leave well alone." John nudged Sherlock in the thigh with his foot. Sherlock clamped his hand over the phone's transmitter. "Do you mind?" He hissed.

"No." John said nudging him more aggressively.

"You have poor impulse control." Sherlock sneered.

"You have a poor attitude." John said giving him a slight kick, trying to push his buttons.

Sherlock swatted at John's foot. He removed his hand and let out a sigh. "Jim, I'll have to call you another time." Sherlock gritted his teeth and glared at John who had ceased kicking him. "You will come though?" John waited, tapping his foot. "Good." John let out a heavy sigh. "No, no. Don't worry about getting anything. We have it well covered." Sherlock clocked John in his shin while his guard was down. John grimaced and grabbed his leg, letting out a silent scream. "Right, then. Later." Sherlock said pulling the mobile away from his head and pressing the screen.

Sherlock stood up and glared down at John.

"Prick." He spat.

"What? I was only having a bit of fun." John smiled.

"I don't do that to you when you're on the phone with yours."

"My what?" John asked with a furrowed brow.

"Oh you know who."

"I'm hardly ever on the phone." John said dismissively.

"Doesn't give you the right to interrupt my private conversations."

"Private conversations. Woo." John said holding up his hands. "Having a little phone sex are we?"

"Oh do shut up and help me get ready."

"Get ready for what?" John asked puzzled.

"The flat's a wreck. When's the last time you hoovered?"

"Um, not your housekeeper." John said impishly.

"Doesn't mean you're immune from cleaning up after yourself." Sherlock said looking around. He pointed to a tea-cup on the side table. "Like there!"

"I'm still drinking it!" John said taking on the challenge. "Oh where do I begin? Um there, there, there, there, there, _there_." John said pointing to the smiley face on the wall, the ink stain on the carpet, the three cups on the coffee table, Sherlock's boxers on the back of his chair. "I don't even know what that is." John said pointing to the mess in the kitchen.

"Yes well… if you'd pick up after me more frequently the mess wouldn't build up to such an unsightly state."

"I pick up after you constantly!" John shouted. "You know what? He's your friend. You clean up."

"If you would stop bitching and moaning we'd be half done by now." Sherlock said picking his underwear off the back of his chair.

"What are those doing out here anyhow?" John asked.

"Pants are overrated." Sherlock said with a sigh.

"Are you wearing any pants?" John said glancing at Sherlock's trousers.

"No."

"Ok." John said looking away, then looking right back at Sherlock. They both started laughing uncontrollably. "You serious?"

"Too constricting! I'm a free spirit." Sherlock laughed.

"You'll chafe."

"Try it sometime, it's liberating." Sherlock said picking up his tea cups and looping their handles through his fingers.

"Nah, I prefer keeping mine in solitary confinement." John chuckled walking to the kitchen to start on the dishes. Sherlock came over to drop off the tea-cups.

"Where's the vacuum?" Sherlock asked looking around as if one would suddenly materialize out of thin air.

"How should I know?" John said with a shrug.

"Have you ever cleaned the floors?"

"Erm." John said looking down. "Nope."

"You repel me." Sherlock said in disgust.

"Yeah, well go put some bloody pants on." John said waving the dish wand. "Can near make out your religion, trousers are so tight."

"Why are you looking at my crotch?"

"Why aren't you cleaning?" John retorted.

"Too busy getting eye fucked. Paedophile."

"Oh so we're back to this?" John asked throwing his scrub brush in the sink. "You're back to making sexual advances?"

"You're the one checking me out."

"I am not." John said rather annoyed. "You know we went near a whole week without you going all pervy on me. I'd appreciate you being a little more mature."

"You'd appreciate it?"

"Isn't going to happen?"

"That's right. Now clean up this filth." Sherlock said retreating to his bedroom.

"I'm finishing off the dishes and that's all!" John shouted as Sherlock slammed his door shut. "Prince Jim can walk on filthy floors for all I care. Eat off dirty dishes. Breathe in dust. If Sherlock's not going to lift a finger, neither am I." John said throwing in the towel and retreating from the kitchen.

John left the living area and walked up the stairs to his room. He pressed open the door and took in the sad state of his room. It had become littered with rubbish and dirty laundry. He shut the door and locked it.

He was starting to feel bored again. He let out a sigh and walked to his bed. He reached in between the mattress and box-spring and pulled out a magazine he had nicked from Sherlock's not-so-secret stash.

The bloke on the cover page had caught his attention earlier that week.

_Red hair._

John felt lonely all of a sudden and quite dirty. Then again he was looking at a filthy magazine, it was only reasonable he felt slightly dirty. He lay down on his bed, propped a pillow behind his head, and started thumbing through the pages.

_Too much muscle. Too many piercings. Tattoos. Too old. Advertisement… advertisement. Hairy, scary, eh he's all right._

John reached the end of the magazine and sighed.

_Too many hairy old men with tattoos and pierced nipples._

John looked up at the ceiling.

_Fuck… I miss Mycroft. What is wrong with me?_

John looked at the magazine cover.

_Doesn't look anything like him. Not that Mycroft is more attractive. Posh git. Shouldn't be thinking about him at all. Way he acted._

John dug the back of his head more into the pillow and tried to think of something to do that didn't involve cleaning.

_Sleep? No I've been sleeping too much lately._

John let out another sigh and rolled on to his side.

_Why did Mycroft have to go and be such a giant prick? Not that it matters… he's countries away._

John rubbed his face with his hands.

_I don't even like him half the time. I mean… sure I do when we're all together and doing adult stuff. Besides that, we don't get along the majority of the time. He's always obsessed with work. Constantly putting down his little brother. Stealing my clothes… making me look… all mature… what with my button-down shirts and cardigans. Looks like I nicked this stuff off a granddad._

John pulled at his shirt sleeves, drawing them over the heels of his hands. He crossed his arms and huffed.

_I'm not 'cute'._

John wasn't certain what style suited him but he was fairly sure that being regarded as an 'adorable young man' by the elderly cashier at Tesco was not what he aiming for. Punk rock boy-slut was a definite no. As for jeans and t-shirt John, nobody had anything nice to say about him when he looked so plain.

He did adore his shooting jacket. It gave him confidence and was too short for Sherlock so there was no threat of him using it as a lab coat. John was back to missing Mycroft for no good reason.

_Why can't I date normal people? Ones that I don't need to go through therapy over._

John groaned and pulled out his mobile. He clicked on the calendar and looked for his next appointment date.

_The 2_ _nd_ _of January. God, I shouldn't even bother. Sherlock's back. I don't need any more help. She's on Mycroft's side anyhow. She doesn't know what it's like to be in a relationship with a basketcase._

John placed his mobile on his night stand.

_If he didn't smell so nice… wasn't so bloody tall… n handsome… charming… with silky smooth hands…_

John hummed unintentionally. The sound startled him and snapped him out of his daze.

_Yeah and a cold hearted bitch._

John furrowed his brows at the thought and shifted his crossed arms, wrapping himself up. He pined to have someone behind him. Holding him.

_Nothing like the holidays to make you feel so utterly alone._


	32. Chapter 32

John awoke feeling gross. He had napped far too long again.

_Why can't I sleep like this at night?_

John felt severe cotton mouth, extending to the back of his throat. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he swallowed hard trying to coat his mouth with saliva. He shifted in bed and felt a disgusting slick stickiness in his pants.

_Aw gross. I haven't had a wet dream in years… why now? Guess it beats having a night terror…_

John grimaced as the wet spot of his pants rubbed up against him as he went to sit up. He slid off his trousers and carefully removed his underwear. He wiped down his inner thigh with his pants and crumpled them up, debating whether or not to throw them away.

_Serves me right, wearing tight pants to bed. Should toss em in the bin._

John stood up and shoved them in his over flowing laundry hamper. He couldn't bear to part with them, at least not yet.

_Why did I even decide to wear them today? It's Monday for God's sake!_

John opened the top drawer of his dresser.

_Oh that's right… haven't done the laundry in ages._

He pulled out a pair of boxers he was certain once belonged to the Pope because they were rather holey. He slid them on and stood for a moment.

_Boxers… might as well not wear pants at all. There's such a thing as too much freedom._

John stretched and scratched the back of his neck. He heard a clatter downstairs.

_Was that a baking sheet? Since when does Sherlock…_

John looked down at his watch.

_Fuck, Jim must be here._

John whined on the inside. He was just starting to recover from the whole Moran affair, now he had to deal with some drugged out kid who was notorious for being an absolute creep.

_Maybe he's better now that he's not hopped up on X. God knows if he's using something else._

John groaned and rubbed his face. He desperately wanted Sherlock to stay clean, he didn't need this Jim kid mucking about, tempting Sherlock.

_Give the kid the benefit of the doubt, be a good Christian. Be willing to forgive him. You don't even know the boy. Can't pass judgement until you go down there and at least meet him._

John nodded as he finished his mental pep talk. He searched the floor for his freshest pair of jeans, feeling gross for living in such squalor.

_I'm on holiday. I'll get to cleaning once the break is over._

John started to dig through the pile of clothes in the corner next to the hamper. He found a pair, did a quick look over, gave it a sniff.

_I really need to do the laundry._

John slid on his jeans, one leg at a time, and hopped in.

_Bloody three pounds. That's it, New Year's resolution number one: work out. Number two: clean my room. Number three: get laid. Should write em down… Nah I'll remember… at least the last one._

John searched his drawers for a shirt. He found the tan cable knit jumper Sherlock had tried to discard in the bins outside. It was plain looking but had a good weight to it. John pulled it on over his head and slid his arms through the sleeves. It felt like a warm hug around his torso. He turned to give himself a look in the mirror.

_I look positively adorable, Sherlock will hate it._

John grinned.

_It's perfect._

John heard a loud yowling coming from outside his window. He ran out his door, down the steps, and took a sharp turn on the landing. Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat to see what the commotion was.

"John!" She shouted as John ran out the front door.

He rounded the corner and ran full speed down the alley way. He felt like he was running in slow motion as he spotted the ratty black and white furball. He scooped up the scrawny alley cat and held him tight as he spun in circles.

"You bloody bastard! I thought you'd died!" John was near brought to tears as he held his cat once more. "Never again! You hear me?" It had started snowing, large flakes gently floated down. A snowflake landed on the cat's nose, he shook it off and licked at his nose. John smiled warmly. "Let's get you inside."

John carried the cat in, cradled in his arms. Mrs. Hudson looked at him strange.

"I thought you'd had a fright and run off!" She scolded.

"Look who's back Mrs. Hudson." John said showing her the cat.

"Oh dear, he looks chilled to the bone." Mrs. Hudson said giving the poor creature a look of pity. Sherlock was standing at the top of the stairs looking down.

"John! You look like a destitute street urchin." Sherlock said with a high pitched whine. "Is that my grandmother's jumper?"

"Problem?" John asked scratching behind the cat's ears.

"By God John, could you look any more homely?"

"I don't suppose I could." John said with a grin. Sherlock scowled. "Oh who am I trying to impress?"

"Jim is here." Sherlock whisper shouted. He clutched on to the railing and begged John with his eyes.

"Are you embarrassed?" John asked incredulously. Sherlock was blushing and leaning forward onto railing. "You're mortified! You think I'm going to embarrass you in front of your boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Oh shit." John said. His mouth hung open as he looked back and forth between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock turned away in a huff and slammed the door behind him. Then John realized he cursed in front of Mrs. Hudson.

_Oh double shit._

"Boyfriend?" Mrs. Hudson asked again. John let the cat down on to the floor; it darted for Mrs. Hudson's flat.

_Smart cat._

"Yeah um." John said rubbing the back of his neck. "Sherlock's he's um…"

"Gay?" Mrs. Hudson offered.

"Um yeah…" John said uncomfortably. Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue coming to realization.

"The boy with the books. He's…"

"Yeah." John said looking at the floor. They stood in an awkward silence for a moment.

"Well good for him." Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Seems like a nice boy." Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows were furrowed.

"You don't seem so sure." John said looking up at her.

"Seems a bit off, the boy."

"Haven't met him." John said scratching at his wrist. He forgot how much wool itched.

"I've got an intuition bout these things." Mrs. Hudson said crossing her arms.

_Says the woman who's dated just about every creeper in London._

"If Sherlock sees something in him… I suppose…" John shrugged. "Give him a chance?" John grimaced.

"Atta boy." Mrs. Hudson said patting John on the shoulder. "You're far kinder than I'll ever be." She smiled giving his shoulder a light squeeze. "But if he breaks little Sherlock's heart, you let me know. I'll see to it he gets what he deserves."

"I'll hold him and you punch?"

"I could take him all on my own dear. Tiny thing. Shorter than you even."

"Oh?" John said straightening up. Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"I better get that cat fed before he goes tearing up my flat." Mrs. Hudson pointed to her front door with her thumb.

"Will you be up for drinks later?"

"Don't believe so dear. Once ten rolls round I'm out like a light."

"Oh you're no fun." John laughed.

"You two are such a handful, I said you'd do a number on my wrinkles and look at me. I need my beauty sleep."

"Oh Mrs. Hudson." John sighed. "You don't look a day over twenty."

"A day, no. A couple decades…"

"Are you fishing for compliments?" John chuckled. "Let's see… used the shining star one… hm. How about…" John tapped his chin. "If I told you that you were amazing every time I felt like you were, I'd never have the time to say anything else."

"Oh stop." Mrs. Hudson chortled giving John a gentle shove. "Why don't you go on up and enjoy yourself? Don't let the boys get too rowdy with the liquor. Don't want the police showing up askin' questions bout where they got it from."

"You gave them alcohol?" John asked in shock.

"It's New Years John, lighten up."

"I had better get up there." John said running up the stairs. "Happy New Year Mrs. Hudson!" John shouted. He paused at the door and took in a deep breath. He walked in to see Sherlock seated in his chair, everything looked cleaner than normal. John started looking around for Jim, expecting him to jump out of nowhere.

"Bedroom." Sherlock said passively.

"What is he doing in there?" John asked with a furrowed brow.

"Getting dressed." John gave Sherlock a look. Sherlock frowned. "He had a shower. By God John. Do you truly assume the worst of me?"

"Um… yeah." John said looking at Sherlock as if he was stupid.

"I said he could stay the week. At least until school is back in session. Perhaps longer."

"Sherlock!" John shouted. He looked toward Sherlock's bedroom door. He hurriedly walked over to Sherlock. "You could have talked this over with me, before making promises to the boy." John whispered.

"I saved us the time of arguing back and forth." Sherlock sighed. "Knowing full well I would win the argument and we'd being in the same position. You're welcome." John pursed his lips.

"I haven't even met him."

"Well I have."

"Of course you have you idiot you're the one trying to get off with him." John sneered.

"I am not trying to get off with him."

"The poor boy has nowhere else to go and you're taking advantage of him. Where's he to sleep then? At the foot of your bed?"

"Being the gracious host I am, I am willing to sleep on the sofa so that he may have the use my bed."

"I won't have it." John said crossing his arms. "You can sleep in my bed, I'll have the sofa."

"He isn't _your_ guest." Sherlock said shifting to sit straight up in his chair.

"My flat, my guest."

"I paid for it." Sherlock glared.

"Well I was here first."

"Why can't I sleep on _my_ sofa?" Sherlock asked angrily.

"Because… he's right there." John said pointing to Sherlock's bedroom door. "I'm not having you sneak into his bed in the middle of the night."

"Why would that concern you so much?"

"I'm not having you two making… sex… in my flat!"

"It is none of your concern what I chose to do with my body."

"You're still under-aged. You can't do… _things_ until you're sixteen."

"You're saying I can't have any fun until I'm sixteen?"

"Yes, that is exactly what I'm saying." John said defiantly.

"You're such a prude."

John heard Sherlock's bedroom door open and he suddenly felt incredibly shy. He didn't want to look at the boy as he walked into the sitting room. John's eyes darted to the boy and he felt his stomach become uneasy.

"Hey." He said with a nod.

"Hi." The boy said with a smile. He looked up at John with awe. John felt his skin itch.

"Um… John Watson." John said extending his hand. The boy looked at it a moment and gave it a light shake. John was brought back to one of Sherlock's rants about a million and one things you can deduce about a man from his handshake.

_Extroverted, eye contact throughout, light touch… What did the light touch mean? Oh wait… doesn't that mean he's self-conscious? Why is he looking at me like that? Smile, John, smile._

John's mirror neurons were failing and John forced a smile back. He tried to look Jim in the eye but they were so dark it was like staring into the void of space and he had to look away. They were frighteningly vast.

He was otherwise a cute boy. He had a nice shape to his face, good symmetry, well groomed hair, nice teeth. John was letting his reputation precede him. He had to shake away all of the rumours and get to know him for himself.

"So you're John Watson, Sherlock's told me all about you." Jim said with a rich Irish accent. His voice was surprisingly deep for such a small boy. Mrs. Hudson was right; she could whoop his arse easy.

John wasn't sure why he was so intimidated by the kid. He seemed friendly; one couldn't tell how hard his life had been of late by his appearance alone. John had so many questions he couldn't possibly ask at that precise moment but he so desperately wanted to know.

_Where are your parents? Why are you with Sherlock? What are your intentions? Who are you?_

"So you're going to be staying with us then?" John asked forcing a grin once more.

"Yes and may I say, thank you. Thank you for opening your doors to me in my time of need. God bless." Jim said with a nod. John felt awkward and shifted uncomfortably.

"You're um… that's a nice cross." John said pointing to the boy's necklace.

"You like it?" Jim said with a smile. "Roman Catholic."

"Oh really?" John said looking towards Sherlock who was highly disinterested in their small talk. Sherlock was staring off into space with a placid look on his face.

"I've been able to remain quite devout, given the circumstances. Saint Patrick's welcomed me with open arms and I am forever grateful." Jim said fiddling with his cross. "Only could manage to get away during Saturday mass. Learned a good deal of Portuguese." He chuckled lightly.

John was trying to force himself to feel empathy for the boy.

_What is wrong with me? He's a fugitive. I should feel sorry for him. He's been through hell and all I can think about is him and Sherlock being an item._

"What denomination are you?" Jim asked. "Sherlock never said."

"Baptist." John said putting his hands in his pockets. "Though I've told Sherlock that about a million times. He just never seems to listen when it comes to religion." They both looked at Sherlock who had checked out mentally and was in a meditative state.

"I strongly believe he has faith in a higher power." Jim grinned.

"And that is?"

"Himself." They both grinned as Sherlock lifted one eyebrow.

After a light dinner Jim had prepared, the boys broke into the cheap rum and started pouring obscene amounts into their glasses, trying to drink one another under the table. John's vision had gone hazy and he was becoming deaf to the world. He hadn't been drunk in ages, not since that fateful night at the club.

It felt like aeons ago that Sherlock and he hooked up. It was so magical. The dim lights, a chance meeting, being swept up in the heat of the moment, then waking up in the morning to find he fucked a school boy. Ok, it wasn't exactly a love story.

They had overcome the odds and became best friends though: friends with inconsistent benefits that were more like double edged daggers. Now that Sherlock would be occupied with Jim, John could go on with his life, he thought. There would be no more sexual tension between them. They could even double date.

_Ok, no, that would be weird. Especially if I stay with his brother._

John thought to the word 'if'.

_Why did he have to go and complicate everything? I was fine just sporadically making out, shagging on the couch. Then he had to say the word. That word! God! How could a word carry so much weight?_

John fell to the floor.

_Love._


	33. Chapter 33

The last thing John remembered of New Years Eve was the blurred image of his flatmate entwined in a drunken snog with his midget of a boyfriend. John had felt pinned to the floor by gravity and desperately wanted to protest but every time he went to speak only drunken incoherent babbling came out.

He soon blacked out completely and awoke on New Year's Day to a face full of fur. Dumb-arse had decided John's chest looked like a perfect resting spot and was hunkered down and purring contently with his eyes shut. John was hit with a terrible nausea. He shoved the cat off his chest, scrambled to his feet, and made a wobbly path for the bathroom. He only just made it in the nick of time before he vomited profusely into the toilet.

John held on to the seat and prayed to the porcelain God. He heaved a few more times before he fell backwards, light-headed. He felt the odd satisfaction of a good purge. His head started pounding and his tongue went dry. The room stopped spinning long enough for John to lean forward and flush the toilet.

He lay down on the tile floor, the heat transferring from his body to the cold tiles. John imagined how gross the floors must be, seeing as two or rather three boys now shared the facility. John scooted further back from the toilet.

_I'm going to have to take a scrub brush to my face._

John shut his eyes and soon fell back asleep.

He was violently awoken by Sherlock who was dragging him by the foot to the threshold of the loo.

"Sherlock! What the hell?" John whined.

"Rawrunhm." Sherlock growled through squinted eyes. "Piss." He said pulling down his pyjama pants. John looked away having caught a glance of Sherlock's dick.

Sherlock obvious didn't give a single care in the world as he leaned his hand against the wall and let out a loud groan as he relieved himself into the toilet. John heard a flush then felt a sharp blow to the top of his head as Sherlock walked right into him.

"Oi! Watch it." John shouted rubbing his head. Sherlock grumbled a response, that John wasn't sure whether or not could be considered English, as he stepped over John and made his way back to his bedroom.

John sat up and crawled over to the shower. He stripped on the bathroom floor and stood uneasily. He turned on the water and waited for it to heat up.

The water was much colder than usual. John groaned in detest but slid under the water stream and scrubbed at his hair. He looked at his empty bottle of shampoo and growled. He grabbed the bar of ivory soap and started lathering himself up.

The bar of soap slid out of his hands and on to the shower floor. John looked at the soap with half-lidded eyes.

_Seriously?_

He bent over too quickly and felt a sharp sting in his head from the change in position. When he went to stand straight once more his head started throbbing. He started lathering up his hair. John hated using bar soap to clean his hair: it made his wet hair squeak and it never looked good when it dried. The water turned freezing as John rinsed off his hair, making his head sting even worse.

He shut off the water and stepped out to see no towels on the rack. He felt goosebumps cover every inch of his naked body. He started to slide on his discarded clothes. John groaned and opened the medicine cabinet. He shook the paracetamol bottle.

_One tablet… half the recommended dose._

John sighed and twisted open the bottle, he shook the bottle over his hand, the pill bounced off his palm, landed in the sink and slid down the drain. John slammed the bottle down, held on to the sides of the sink, and bounced his head off the medicine cabinet.

_It's going to be one of 'those' years._

John stepped outside of the loo and was hit with the tantalizing odour of bacon. He poked his head round the corner to see Jim at the stove, making breakfast with every burner on at once. Bacon, sausages, fried eggs, black pudding, and fried tomatoes: the boy was going all out. John's arteries felt clogged just smelling the full Irish breakfast.

"Best cure for a hang-over." Jim said without looking back. He started loading up a plate with a bit of everything. "Have a seat. I don't bite." Jim said turning around placing the plate on the table, along with salt and pepper. John tentatively walked over and took his seat.

He looked over Jim's offering set before him.

_There goes my resolution to lose weight._

Jim held out a fork and smiled at John. John took the fork and nodded. "Thanks."

John started to drool as he bit into the bounty of greasy fried meats. Even the tomatoes were coated in delicious fat. It tasted like sin.

"Mm. It's real good." John looked at Jim who was turning off the burners. He took up a plate that was loaded with food. "Is that for Sherlock?" Jim nodded. "Good luck getting him to eat all of that. I swear, the boy's anorexic."

Jim looked down at the plate. "Oh, he'll eat it all." He said with a grin. John let out a short laugh.

_Yeah right._

Jim set the plate on the table across from John and left to go to Sherlock's room. John looked at the plate.

_Sherlock hates tomatoes. He has a long standing grudge against the entire nightshade family. He thought I was trying to poison him eggplant that one time._

Jim reappeared with Sherlock in tow. John looked at Sherlock in shock.

_Not a single word of protest?_

Sherlock sat down across from John. He lifted his fork and started eating like a normal human being.

_Oh… my… God… He's eating! Like a normal person… It isn't even a special occasion! It's Tuesday for Christ's sake! Wednesday is eating day!_

John watched Sherlock bite into a tomato and nearly fell out of his chair.

_What is wrong with you? You full-heartedly believe tomatoes are poison!_

Sherlock looked up at John and glared, reading his mind.

_Oh yeah, read this. Fuck you._

Sherlock's upper lip snarled.

_Oh he can't possibly read minds. It's all in the body language. Here's a little body language for you._

John covertly flipped Sherlock off. Sherlock continued eating, rushing to finish his plate.

_You never eat for me! Even when I beg. How could you sit there and eat all of that?_

Sherlock stopped paying attention to John's telepathic nagging. He made certain to focus on finishing off every speck of tomato. John shook his head.

_Should be happy, he's eating. He's eating a full breakfast. Yet I'm jealous. This isn't healthy. I'm jealous of a little boy. That's it._

John stood up and slid his plate over to Sherlock. "Thanks for breakfast. I'll be upstairs if you need me."

_Then again, why would you need me? You have him._

John tried to walk away calmly and not bring attention to himself as he left the living area to climb the stairs to his room. He slammed the door shut and locked it, threw himself on his bed, and screamed into his pillow.

His head felt like it was splitting in two. He felt sick to his stomach and he wanted his mum and dad.

He wanted to be at home, eating breakfast there. He wanted his mum in the kitchen making beans and toast, not bloody black pudding. He wanted his sister to be the one recovering from a hang-over. He wanted his dad to be reading the paper and puffing away at a cigar in his favourite chair, saying over and over how he was never going to remember what year to write on checks until next year rolled around.

He wanted to go home to a home that didn't exist and couldn't exist any more. John broke into tears and sobbed into his pillow. He didn't want any of this any more.

He grabbed his mobile and dialled the only person he thought would understand. He felt a large lump in his throat as he heard the dial tone.

_Pick up… please pick up…_

He heard an awkward " _Hello_?" on the other end of the line. John swallowed hard. " _Hello, John?"_

"I miss my mum." John said painfully.

" _Aw, John I'm real sorry. You needa talk bout it?"_

"No, I just wanna die." John cried into the phone. "I can't do this any more."

_"I'll be there in fifteen, don't do anything."_

The phone clicked and John buried his face into his pillow. He couldn't bring himself to cry although he felt a back up of tears. He looked at the sun casting through his window on to his filthy floor. He sniffled and stared at the mess.

_How did I let it get this far?_

John stood up and fell to the floor on his knees. He picked up the rubbish with a blank look on his face. He was starting to see his throw rug underneath. He kept cleaning absent mindedly for ten minutes. He heard a rap at the door. He closed his eyes and immediately regretted making the call in the first place.

"John, open up." John stood and brushed his hands on his jeans. He went and unlocked the door. Greg looked down at him, leaning in the doorway.

"What's going on?" He asked. John didn't feel like talking. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Greg's torso. Greg returned the hug and John's tears came rushing back. He started shaking violently from the pain in his head. His blood felt toxic. He started going weak but Greg held him steady.

"He's here." John sobbed.

"Who's here?"

"The boy, the Irish boy. He's here and…" John said through heavy sobs.

"You mean Moriarty?" Greg asked pushing John back by the shoulders. "That freak?" John nodded and wiped his eyes. "What the fuck is he doing here?" Greg asked in anger.

"He's Sherlock's… unh." John fell forward once more against Greg's chest. "Boyfriend." John choked out.

"Oh God." Greg said pulling them into John's room. He shut the door. John wailed and moaned indignantly into Greg's shirt. "Listen, you can't let the little fuck get to ya. He's a creep, he's just trying to get into your head."

"He's going to take Sherlock away… and I'll be… Left with nothing!" John cried.

"He's not taking him away." Greg said rubbing John's back.

"He already did once… this time he's going to take him away forever, I know it."

"How's he going to take him away?"

"I'm gonna lose him." John buried his face in Greg's shirt.

"John you're not going to lose him." Greg said dismissively. John pushed him away.

"Yes I will!" John shivered as he tried to keep his feet firmly planted on the floor. "He's going to go back on the needle and he'll be lost forever."

"Oh, John. I had no idea." He said taking a step towards John. "You didn't say Sherlock was on drugs."

"He was… he's clean… for now." John said clenching his teeth. "What could he possibly see in him?"

"The boy's a little cock-slut." Greg said as if it was obvious.

"What?" John near shouted.

"The kid is a freak." Greg tried to elaborate. "He _enjoys_ doing all that… stuff." John looked confused. "Unh John, don't make me 'splain it, it's gross."

"What's gross? Gay sex?" John looked at Greg with disbelief.

"Nah… this ain't sex! It's like… God… don't you own a computer? Have you _been_ on the Internet?" Greg let out a heavy sigh. "All right… all right." He drew in a breath. "For example…" He started. "The boy'd lick the come off yer boot and love every moment of it."

"Aw yuck." John said with a grimace.

"It's all that BDSM shit." Greg looked at John. "Oh come on…" Greg let out another sigh. "Bondage n discipline, dominance n submission, sadism n masochism. _Fifty Shades of Grey_ … n stuff." Greg ran a hand through his hair. "The kid gets off on it. God, half of Soho does nowadays. Main reason I left."

"You didn't…"

"John, you don't wanna know." Greg said shaking his head. John felt a little bile in the back of his throat. "What do you need me to do?" Greg asked giving John a look of pity.

"I don't know."

"I can get rid of him." Greg offered. "Call social services. They'd pick him up within the hour. He's not supposed to be here."

"No… no… Sherlock would never forgive me."

"Would you rather be on bad terms with your cousin or have that little fuck in your flat?" It sounded like an ultimatum.

_Either risk losing Sherlock to Jim by letting him stay or lose him to Jim for sure by taking him away._

"John, you have to do what's best for yourself." Greg said placing a hand on John's shoulder.

"I don't know." John sighed.

_I wish someone would just decide for me, tell me what's best for me. My parents knew what was best for me. I should have gone to uni closer to home; stayed clear of London and all its temptations. Then I wouldn't be gay._

"Greg… how'd you stop being gay?" John asked with a whine.

"Oh God John." Greg said grimacing. "You're being ridiculous."

"I don't want to be like this any more." John pouted. "I hate myself."

"You don't _hate_ yourself. You're just confused."

"That's right, I'm confused. Now how do I get unconfused? I want to move on with my life."

"There is no cure for gay. God John, look at your sister!" Greg said waving his arm in the air, trying to make a feeble point.

"She's a drunk."

"And the biggest lesbo in all of bloody England." Greg sighed. "Those camps and treatments did nothing but make her _more_ gay. I swear she was picking up girls left and right at those camps." Greg held back a laugh. "There's nothing on this earth that's going to make you something you're not."

"Girls are just… so much less complicated." John moaned and took a seat on his bed.

"The fuck they are!" Greg shouted putting his hands on his hips. "You know how hard it is to have sex with em?" John shrugged. "Cost me a fortune having a girlfriend. What'd I do? Buy you pair of pants or two and some leggings? Girls need whole wardrobes, rings, cars, houses, a horse n carriage. Oh God, then they start popping out kids! You gotta buy _them_ wardrobes, a new car to fit all of em, a new house, a pony a piece." Greg shook his head. "Oh and bugger all if you have little girls. Whole vicious cycle starts over again."

"When is Susan due?"

"Mid-May." Greg said letting his hands fall from his hips.

"They know what it is?"

"Nah. Not yet… don't know much bout the whole reproduction business… well save the conception part… apparently I'm good at that bit." Greg said rolling his eyes.

"You got anyone else knocked up?" John asked looking him over.

"Nah… less you're preggers…. Are you?"

"Unh." John groaned and threw his head back on the bed. He brought his hands to his face not wanting to remember ever going out with Greg.

"How's you and the ginger?"

"God Greg, you're not helping." John moaned into his hands.

"I'm trying here. Now come on." Greg said taking a seat next to John on the bed. "Tell me bout it, you're miserable and I just want to help." He patted John on the leg. "I want to make sure you're all right to be left alone." John rolled away from Greg and on to his stomach.

"I'm fine." John mumbled with the side of his face pressed to his sheets.

"I'm worried bout you. I mean… wanting to end it all… that's serious John."

"I was just… I wasn't really considering it!" John groaned.

_Why can't you just leave me alone?_

"I was being… dramatic. A fucking queer." John said clutching his head.

"John, what's going on with you?"

"I don't know!" John shouted and ran his hands through his hair. "I should be chuffed. Got Moran behind bars. And… God… Greg." John whined. "He… Mycroft said he fucking loved me."

"Unh, great." Greg grunted.

"It's all moving too fast. I can't even begin to reciprocate _those_ kinds of feelings."

"I know, I know. Things get real fucked up when you bring 'love' into the equation." Greg sighed. "So what are you going to do bout it?"

"I don't know." John said burying his face into the bedspread. He groaned loudly.

"Could just break it off." Greg shrugged.

"But I don't _want_ to. That's just it." John said pushing up on to his elbows. "For whatever reason, I just don't want to."

"Cos his feelings would get hurt?"

"No, it's not even that! I just… I don't know." John shrugged, he was completely flustered.

"Sex?" Greg asked with a grimace.

"No." John said rubbing his forehead. "It isn't _that."_

"Then what is it?" Greg pressured.

"I told you! I don't know!" John let his hands drop and looked at Greg in annoyance. "God, just leave me alone." John groaned and let his head fall into his hands. "I've got a hang-over and I just want to die in peace." Greg looked down at him with sorrowful eyes. "I'm not going to bloody kill myself if that's what you're wondering."

"John, do you get why I'm worried?"

"Yes." John whined. "Now go away."

"Are you sure you don't want me to call social services?"

"Yes. Now go." John groaned.

"All right, I'll go, but you gotta promise you're not going to do anything stupid." Greg said laying a hand on John's back.

"Fine."

"You swear?"

"Yes! For God's sake, go." John said pulling a pillow over the back of his head and shutting out the world.

"You know you should see someone, suicide's-"

"Yes thank you! Good-bye!" John shouted under the pillow.

"John don't be like this, I'm only-"

"Trying to help! Yeah… I get it." John sneered.

"All right, whatever." Greg said pursing his lips. "You call me. Anything happens with Moriarty. I'll take care of him." John released his grip on the pillow.

"Ok." He said with a sigh. Greg stood up and walked to the door. "And Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"Any time." Greg said with a smile. He left John's room, gently closing the door behind him. John let out a heavy sigh.

_I suppose I will be making that therapy appointment after all._


	34. Chapter 34

"How were your holidays John?" Dr. Thompson asked scribbling down notes immediately. John looked blown to hell. He hadn't slept well before the 8 AM appointment. He managed maybe a few winks before his alarm went off.

"Fine." John mumbled as he sank into his arm chair. He still felt hung-over. He had skipped breakfast.

_Pastries… the boy brought back pastries… Fuck my life._

"How are things with you and Mycroft Holmes?"

"Terrible." John said with a sigh.

"Care to elaborate?"

"I'd rather not." John sighed once more.

"Any resolutions for the New Year?" She asked changing the topic. John felt grateful she didn't chide him for being uncooperative.

"Lose some weight… keep my room more clean…"

_Get laid._

"The standard." John shrugged.

"Sherlock is back?" She asked jotting something down.

"Yeah… he's got himself a boyfriend."

"How are you coping?"

"I'm not." John shook his head. "He's living with us now… and I just… can't handle it."

"Do you feel he isn't right for Sherlock?"

"He is so not _right._ Not right at all." John sighed. They sat silent for a moment before Dr. Thompson shifted in her seat, leaning forward.

"Tell me John. Who would be right for Sherlock? You don't have to name names. Give me a profile of a person, doesn't have to be a person you've met. What would make someone right for Sherlock?"

John took in a deep breath and thought. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the ideal person for Sherlock.

"Well… he or she would have to be… smart… not as clever as him though, he'd hate that." John smiled. "They would need a good sense of humour. Loads of patience. They'd need to know his limitations and boundaries, and not get all offended when he was being a dick. They'd have to feed him when he wasn't hungry and send him to bed when he wasn't tired. They'd have to be a mum and a dad, lover and a fighter, not just his 'boyfriend' but his _friend._ They'd have to compliment him. Not just with words… but like in… I don't know… Kind of like how a good tie compliments a suit. They don't have to be a perfect match, but they just kind of go together. Jam and toast sort of thing." John rolled his shoulders and sat up in his chair. "You know that whole 'what's the first thing that comes to your mind when I say blah' thing some quacks… therapists… do."

"I believe you mean word association." She said with a slight grin.

"Yes. Well, when someone says Sherlock Holmes the first thing that should come to mind is-"

"John Watson?"

"No." John blushed.

"I'm not trying to make fun of you John, but you just described yourself."

"Yeah but I'm… I can't…" John let out a sigh. "And it's not just because he's too young. I'm just not good for him. He was nearly killed under my care."

"Why does Sherlock have to be cared for?"

"Lord knows the boy can't care for himself." John laughed. "He's a mess."

"Perhaps he hasn't had the opportunity to care for himself. With everyone else caring for him?"

"No… no… That's not it at all. Nobody has cared for him. That's his problem. Nobody knew how to 'deal' with him so they sent him away to boarding school, first chance they got. His mum's a mess, his gran's a totalitarian, and his dad's MIA. And Mycroft is… well Mycroft." John said with a grin. "He's just a bad as Sherlock, if not worse." Dr. Thompson stopped writing and looked up at John from her notepad. "Sure he can tie his laces and cook for himself but… the guy needs help." The doctor nodded.

"You said earlier things were 'terrible'?"

"He said he loves me and I just don't know how I'm supposed to feel."

"What do you feel?"

"Angry." John sighed. "Don't know why."

"You wish he would have waited?"

"Or just not said it at all." John said rolling his head to one side and looking out the window. "I don't… I didn't feel pressured with him about anything, but now there's like a looming guilt. He loves me and I don't love him back."

"You believe you need to love him back?" John nodded, watching the trees wave in the breeze. It was a nice day out, the snow had melted and the skies were only slightly overcast. John wished he could go for a run in the woods behind the office, see how far they stretched.

_Grown-ups don't go running into the woods looking for adventure. They go for hikes on beaten paths. They bring water canteens, hiking boots, their digital cameras, mobile phones, MP3 players, their e-readers… they spend so much time tweeting and facebooking about how they love being out in 'nature' that they never experience it. They're too busy looking at it through the lens of their camera, trying to capture it._

"Where would you rather be right now?" Dr. Thompson asked looking out the window with him.

"At home… in the woods… running away from home before I had problems to run from."

"Do you have a favourite animal?"

John chuckled lightly. "Um… I don't know." He turned to her. "Do you?"

"I was always fond of the monkeys at the zoo." She grinned.

"You know… I was actually quite fond of birds when I was little."

"Is that so?" She asked leaning back in her chair.

"They were so intriguing. How they'd come and go as they pleased. One in particular… it was absolutely beautiful… it had a deep sapphire coloured back and bright orange breast. It had this white streak, just above the brow. I remember it vividly. It was unlike any other bird I had seen before in the woods. It stood out in the snow. It was singing… in the dead of winter." John sighed. "When I told my mum she said it probably had escaped from some zoo. That it'd likely die out in the snow… all alone." John leaned back and looked out the window once more. "I went out in the middle of the night, with my flash-light and a bag of sunflower seeds, searching for that bird." John let out a sigh "I got so lost in the dark, I just broke down crying." John grinned. "Then I saw it. That same bird. Perched on a tree. Looking down at me." John's shoulders fell. "Thought it was my guardian angel." John's bottom lip twitched. "Never saw the bird again. I searched and searched every winter." John scratched at the arm of his chair. "So… yeah… suppose that one bird is my favourite animal." John chuckled. "Bit of a long winded story for a simple question. Sorry."

"What would you do if you saw this bird again?"

"Don't know. Probably just watch it, as long as it was willing to hang round to be watched." John shrugged. "Wouldn't be fair to capture it, make it a hostage. We'd both be happier if we just co-existed."

"John-" Dr. Thompson started. There was a knock at the door. "Come in."

"Sorry to disturb you but Mr. Holmes is…" The secretary looked at John. "He is insisting he sees Mr. Watson. Immediately."

"Why? What's happened?" John asked clutching on to the arms of his chair. "What is he doing back so soon? Is Sherlock ok?" John started to panic, his fingers dug into the chair. "Excuse me." He said standing up, feeling weak in the knees. He followed the secretary out to the waiting room where Mycroft was standing with an armed guard.

_The American._

John looked at Mycroft who was completely calm and composed.

"What… what happened?" John asked frantically.

"Perhaps we had better go for a little walk." Mycroft said shifting his umbrella down his arm and into his hand. John looked up at the American. "We're not in any immediate danger. Come, let's walk." Mycroft turned smoothly and strolled right out the door with John in tow trying to keep up with his long strides.

The American was five paces behind, making John feel less secure. Mycroft twirled his umbrella and walked down the corridor with haste.

"I take it you haven't been following the trial?" Mycroft asked with an air of conceit.

"Oh… the Moran one… Why?" John stopped. "They didn't let him go did they?" Mycroft stopped as well.

"Heavens no. The man had no defence. He is to be punished to the fullest extent."

"Well that's good." John shrugged. "What are you doing back so soon?"

"We…" Mycroft started. He closed his mouth and titled his head to one side. "I'm afraid we may have celebrated Moran's imprisonment a bit… prematurely." Mycroft pursed his lips and let out a pained sigh.

"What does that mean?" John looked at him in concern.

"Moran's operations, the sex trafficking and heroin trade are still in full swing."

"Yes well… stuff like that takes a while to dismantle."

"Yes, I'm quite aware that they do." Mycroft let out a sigh through his nose. "However, it isn't often the case that taking down a major ring-leader leads to a boom in business, pun intended." John didn't find it at all amusing.

"You mean he's still making bombs? He's in prison for God's sake!"

"Not just making them. Making them better… much much better."

"How much better?"

"The explosion is large enough to wipe out a city block."

"With a little wrist watch?" John asked incredulously.

"With a clock tower, John." John looked at Mycroft in shock. "It was the next logical step. However we were not expecting him to have implicated a successful design so soon." Mycroft looked at John. "Moran isn't the criminal mastermind behind these attacks. I believe we have been sent on a wild-goose chase while the real ring-leader is still at large."

"What attacks?"

"Thirty-seven dead this morning. Witnesses say the church bells were ringing like an alarm clock. The shock wave was equivalent to that of a Chernobyl."

"Where?"

"Belarus." Mycroft said looking towards the American. "The attack wasn't aimed at those who had been working on the Moran case. It was meant as a display. A foreshadowing of what is to come."

"What are we supposed to do?"

"Run. Run as fast as we can and don't look back." Mycroft sighed. "We can leave at once if you're ready."

"And what? Set back and watch England fall?" John shouted. "How about we find out who's behind these attacks, stop them from happening, save the lives of hundreds if not thousands of people, and show the world the British Government isn't made up a bunch of bloody cowards who back down from terrorist threats?"

"Don't be a fool John, we don't stand a chance."

"Didn't stand a chance in World War two." John shrugged.

"We had Winston Churchill."

"We have Sherlock Holmes."

_And if all else fails we have close to nine million Euros and I hear Australia is quite nice this time of year._


	35. Chapter 35

"John the file." Mycroft said staring at the ceiling. He was lounged out on the sofa, his arm hang over the side, swinging like a pendulum, gravity being the only force present in the motion.

"Another migraine?" John asked with a sigh. Mycroft gave no response, just a blank stare at the ceiling.

Three months had passed since Belarus and Mycroft had taken a dive. He was constantly getting tension headaches and migraines from work. John would walk in to find him in a sedentary state, filter feeding through the air. He had lost a stone's weight and John actually thought he looked better.

John's life had taken a turn for the better and he found himself often surprised at how happy he was.

Sherlock had returned to school and was doing remarkable in his studies. The head-mistress had even commented on the vast improvement. John had taken over the bi-monthly meetings with the special education needs coordinator and after the first week they decided a change in school wouldn't be practical or warranted.

They ran all sorts of tests on the boy, which Sherlock found frustrating. He'd come home in a foul mood after being poked and prodded and asked the same questions over and over. However he kept his emotions in check and only sulked on the sofa for hours on end instead of throwing glassware everywhere.

Sherlock, for the most part, didn't misbehave in front of Jim. He kept his outbursts to a minimum, or rather a Sherlockian minimum.

"Is it necessary to shout at the microwave? It's an inanimate object, Sherlock." John asked one day after Sherlock started yelling from his chair because the microwave was beeping. "You know, you could just get up and open the microwave before the beeper goes off?"

"God! Why must it make that infernal beeping?"

"To alert you that it's done cooking."

"I know it's done cooking! It doesn't _need_ to remind me every twenty seconds that it's done!"

"Apparently it does! You haven't taken out the bloody food; you've just been sitting there, shouting at it every time it beeps. For Christ's sake Sherlock, it's been thirty minutes!"

John wasn't surprised that when Sherlock's test results had come in, the packet was about as thick as a textbook. Sherlock was busy dismantling the microwave when John had received the parcel. He dropped what he was doing and demanded he see the results.

"No Sherlock… your SENCO said you musn't see the results. You'll get caught up in diagnoses and… something about… you living up to those expectations." John said clutching on to the parcel.

"If I were to receive test results that said I was to die of cancer in four months would I live up to those expectations?"

"No… because you're a bloody prat and you'd go through any means to prove them wrong." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John had just proven his point. "Fine! But… just don't get all… arse sore bout what it says."

"I really bothers you."

"What?"

"What people say."

"Yes." John said stroking the parcel with his thumb, not wanting to open it and see it for himself.

"About me. I don't understand, why would it upset you?"

John shrugged. "I just don't want people treating you different because of what a piece of paper says." John sighed. "They don't treat you too good now."

"Well." Sherlock corrected and held out his hand. "Have a seat, we'll read it together."

"Sherlock." John whined giving Sherlock the parcel. "I don't want to know."

"You're just as interested as I am." Sherlock grinned. "Oh they probably diagnosed me with everything in the book! Look at this John! You could kill a newborn with the sheer weight of it." Sherlock said lifting it up and down.

"Sherlock… remind me never to let you around small children."

When Sherlock opened the report he looked at it in surprise. The packet was so thick it had an index.

"Ah, the usual… ADHD, OCD, Autism spectrum disorder… ODD?" Sherlock questioned.

"Oppositional defiant disorder."

"What are the manifestations?"

"Means you're a little shit." John said shortly. Sherlock chuckled low and grinned reading over the report.

"Conduct disorder…" Sherlock said flipping to the section. "Defiant and 'slash' or impulsive behaviour including drug use and criminal activity." Sherlock looked at it in shock. "I've never done anything _criminal."_

"Yeah well breaking into a house and stealing money isn't criminal… nah… not at all."

"I've never been _caught_ doing anything criminal." Sherlock shrugged. "Ooh antisocial personality disorder, that sounds like fun!" Sherlock smirked. "These are really redundant after a while. Hm… didn't know they considered narcissism a personality disorder. Histrionic as well… They didn't call me bipolar… hm wonder why." Sherlock said furrowing his eyebrows. "Borderline… borderline personality disorder…" Sherlock hummed as he flipped to the description. "Sherlock Holmes displays chronic long-term patterns of emotional instability in his feelings about himself and others." Sherlock shrugged. "Well… you were right John. I don't know if I can live up to _all_ these high expectations."

John let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his temples as Sherlock finished with the book of his emotional and behavioral disorders. It was filled with useful information about treatments and what to expect.

It hadn't been as bad as he anticipated. Sherlock enjoyed having so many labels. Most of them, if not all, described Sherlock perfectly. They weren't, however, the reason Sherlock required additional support in school. Mycroft had seen to it that Sherlock's other diagnoses stayed secrete.

It was about the only thing Mycroft was adamant about when it came to Sherlock. The SENCO and Mycroft butted heads on the topic.

"Sherlock should be aware of his disability, so that we can seek to improve it." She had said with conviction.

"He knows he's a little psychopath, he doesn't need to think he's mentally retarded as well." Mycroft had stood up and was trying to intimidate the woman at the meeting. In the end, she was forced into keeping Sherlock's learning disorder from him.

John wasn't sure where he stood on the issue. Sherlock seemed oblivious to having dyslexia. John didn't think it impeded his learning capabilities. John was however taken aback by Sherlock's IQ score.

"How does a kid like Sherlock score so _low_ on an IQ test?" John asked Mycroft one day at lunch. "One-hundred and ten? That's!"

"Average John." Mycroft said plainly.

"Mine is like one-fifteen. How could I be more intelligent than Sherlock?" John threw his hands into the air.

"I wonder why he chose one-hundred and ten." Mycroft hummed.

"Chose?"

"Last time he scored a sixty-nine, for… comedic reasons of course."

"He's been tested before?"

"Do you believe Sherlock could have passed under the radar for this long?"

"Um… yeah… because he's Sherlock."

"Father had him tested at age nine, mummy destroyed the results, and he was tested again at age thirteen. I'm certain you know what happened to those results as well."

John was thoroughly sickened by how Sherlock's mother allowed Sherlock to suffer through school for so long. Mycroft said it was because the more he suffered, the more he'd want to come home. She never wanted Sherlock to go away to boarding school. She was constantly trying to bring him back, using whatever means necessary.

Sherlock for once was prospering in school, academically. Socially he clung on to Jim and it led to severe ostracism from his peers.

Jim was able to remain at the school under the false pretences that he resided with his fictional mother that had signed her name on the adoption papers. Jim was receiving his fair share of abuse at school for having the adopted surname of Moran.

Boys loved to pick on anything they could get their grubby hands on and an adopted son of a famous criminal like Moran was prime for pecking. Along with the slant rhyme of Moran with Moron, Jim was a major target for bullying.

Jim was completely immune to it. He showed no emotion to his tormentors. Unfortunately the whole 'ignore them and they'll go away' attitude didn't work for Jim and Sherlock. If anything it outraged the bullies more. Why couldn't they illicit a response? They had to try harder and harder until they pushed it too far and got caught by a teacher or member of the faculty.

John was getting tired of all the parentally forced apologetic phone-calls and the parents showing up at his door with their kids, making them apologise to Jim.

The entire faculty adored Jim and took pity on the poor boy. Jim had that effect on adults; he could bend them to his will with a sorrowful look or a sad statement. _Poor poor Jim, everyone is picking on him because his daddy's in prison. He's such a sweet little lad, how could anyone be mean to such a lamb?_

John was getting used to having Jim around. He no longer creeped him out immensely. He only freaked John out moderately. John only experienced cold shots up his spine occasionally opposed to his blood running cold whenever he felt Jim's presence.

Mycroft was less trusting. He refused to meet Jim. He didn't want to look into the boy's cold eyes, knowing he was once Moran's slave.

John had come into the office that day to pick up a file to deliver to Sherlock that was meant for his eyes only.

John was in a good mood even with Mycroft in a fugue state. He'd received perfect marks on all his exams, his lab write-ups were regarded as exemplary, and he finally patched things up with Mike and started going out on Fridays for drinks at the Globe.

He loved how Mike just picked up their friendship like they hadn't been silently avoiding each other for weeks. He was a great friend although his entourage was made up of people John could care less about.

He did attend one event with the whole crew; it was some kind of reunion. Dimmock was there but not entirely 'there'. It was at his parent's house and everyone was closely monitored by Dimmock's mum who was constantly popping in unexpectedly.

Anderson and Sally were there, but not as a couple, they had broken up six or seven times since John had last seen them. Molly had brought Kitty along, as well as Sarah Sawyer who was looking at going into the same program as Mike and John next year.

She had clung on to John the entire time, though it was common knowledge John was gay. It was beyond him why girls behaved so strangely around him. They opened up to him, told him their entire life stories. They hung all over him and made him uncomfortable.

It was as if he was suddenly attractive now that he was a homosexual. Girls immediately believed he was a sweet and sensitive individual and deserving of their trust.

John didn't think he acted gay. He wasn't flamboyant or sparkly. Then again, most of the gay men he met didn't act gay either. Save Joe Wiggins and his ten thousand dildos. John wasn't sure being overly effeminate was all that attractive.

John fancied more masculine features. He wanted to combine the strength of Greg, with the rich textures of Mycroft, mashed up with Sherlock's…

_Sherlocky-ness._

For now, he'd settle with Mycroft's richness.

John walked past Mycroft who had lolled his head to one side, facing the back of the sofa.

"I was talking with Mike the other day." John said casually. "He and I were in pharmacology and talking about analgesics and things." Mycroft closed his eyes.

"John, I'm not experiencing headaches as a withdrawal symptom." Mycroft said with a shallow sigh. "The stress of work is agonizing."

John shrugged. "It was only a thought." John said picking up the folder off Mycroft's desk. "Is this all?" John asked holding up the file.

"Yes." Mycroft said with an airy tone.

"All right. Be seeing you then." John walked by the sofa once more. He knelt down and lifted Mycroft's arm up and on to his chest to let it rest. Mycroft held John's hand lightly.

"It's been days." Mycroft said running his thumb over John's knuckles.

"Days?" John asked with a furrowed brow.

"Days since we've touched." Mycroft sighed looking over John's hand. "Don't you still love me?"

John felt a pang of panic. Every time Mycroft mentioned the word 'love', the fact that John had said it himself, made him feel sick to his stomach.

John's life was going so smoothly and things were finally looking up but he had a constant nagging guilt about what he had done to Mycroft. It was as if John had transferred all his anxiety and depression to Mycroft through some magic words and had broken down his walls with a simple act of passion.

_Simple… yet it has gone and complicated everything._


	36. Chapter 36

It was the first year John had upheld all of his New Year's resolution since he was five when his only resolution was to eat loads more chocolates and sweets. Now that he was a bit older and more pragmatic, he found those sweets went straight to his belt line and that those few extra winter pounds needed to be shed through diet and exercise.

The exercise part wasn't too rough, a quick run round the block, some press-ups, a few crunches and John was starting to see some results. Dieting on the other hand was difficult with Jim making all their meals.

John found as long as he skimped on breakfast, he could keep the weight off. Jim's dinners were far more modest. He only made just enough to feed everyone and there was never any left over. Dinner wasn't an over-indulgence like it was for John growing up but rather a necessity, so one didn't starve to death in their sleep.

John wasn't too fond of a bountiful breakfast and meagre dinner but Jim's cooking beat eating sardines and ramen. Unfortunately for Sherlock, Jim was severely limited to traditional Irish fare.

John often caught Sherlock making faces at his potatoes when Jim's back was turned.

_'Nightshades John, they'll be the death of me.'_

When John told Sherlock tobacco fell into the nightshade family, Sherlock scoffed. John had made another case and point for Sherlock Holmes.

John didn't feel one bit of empathy for Sherlock when it came to eating. The boy would eat chips and crisps just fine. Perhaps the make-believe toxins were destroyed by deep-frying the tuber in burning hot oil. Roasted and baked, mashed and whipped, Sherlock despised them all, but above all _boiled_ potatoes were his kryptonite. It was as if the act of boiling them leached out all the poisons making them unpalatable to Sherlock.

John was the same way about boiled cabbage growing up. His gran loved the smelly stuff. Her house reeked of sulphur. Didn't help she made boiled eggs alongside her stewed cabbage. She'd boil the cabbage all day to make sure it was slimy and putrid, and fed it to her little Johnny in big heaping helpings. It was pure torture.

The first time Jim placed cabbage on the table, Sherlock and John exchanged looks of dread and despair. It was like 'Green Eggs and Ham' had come to life on Baker Street. John tried a bit and to his surprise, enjoyed it. There was no sulphuric smell or bitter taste. It wasn't slimy in the slightest.

Sherlock on the other hand had the opposite reaction. He would not eat cabbage with a mouse in a house, or in a box with a fox, or here or there, or anywhere! But if Jim told him to eat, Sherlock was beat.

Jim had him whipped. Sherlock would not only eat for Jim, he'd sit and do his school work, he'd clean the dishes, he'd hoover the floors, and worst of all he'd go to bed when Jim asked him to. Sherlock would put down his violin and walk obediently to the bedroom without a word.

John was in shock and at first didn't want to know how Jim did it because he was certain it would disturb him to the core. He wasn't too keen on them sharing a bedroom, especially one with only one bed. Sherlock had said he'd take the sofa, but Sherlock's promises were notoriously short lived and easily forgotten. John was just glad he didn't have to sleep on the sofa in the end.

He was keeping up with his resolution to have a clean room, at least for the most part. He always found himself cursing at his past self for being lazy and not straightening up before the mess became overwhelming. It was as if his past self said 'Screw you future me and good luck getting the dried jam stain out of the carpet. Ta!'

_Just like past me to screw future me in the present._

Space and time were complicated. Even more so watching Doctor Who with Sherlock, an activity John tried to avoid at all costs. When it came up in conversations John had to change the topic before Sherlock went off on one of his rants about the space time continuum and relativity. John didn't mind not watching Doctor Who, he preferred the tenth doctor anyhow.

Sherlock couldn't watch anything on the telly without giving a play by play commentary. The more educational, the worse; it was as if Sherlock's goal in life was to disprove every theory. Sherlock especially wanted to defy gravity. He found it annoying that when he jumped up, he came back down, every bloody time. It was so boring and predictable. Laws were meant to be broken.

Physics in school was still troublesome for Sherlock, though he had a good handle on it with Jim as a tutor. Jim was a crazy mathematics genius, a regular human calculator. He wasn't freakishly good with numbers, like a nine million digits of pi or complex algorithms in the head sort, but he could count cards and figure out sales tax on oddly priced items. He was also useful in a pinch to convert imperial to metric and back again.

John did find it odd that Jim liked to tag-along to the store so much. It was the only thing Sherlock refused to do even with Jim around. The mere thought of doing the shopping was enough to send Sherlock into a silent tantrum. It pushed mundane to the extreme and was the opposite sensory overload, it underwhelmed his senses. It was tremendously dull and zapped the life out of Sherlock. He acted as if Tesco was going to swallow his soul.

John was interested in the dynamic between the two boys when Sherlock refused to do something. There were no heated arguments or choice words. In fact, no words were exchanged at all, there was just deafening silence. Sherlock would glare defiantly until his will was broken and he gave in. Jim's face would remain emotionless even after the confrontation was over.

John kept looking for signs that maybe Jim was beating on Sherlock, but there wasn't a single mark on Sherlock and seeing as Sherlock took to roaming the flat naked more than occasionally, John was certain there wasn't a scratch on him anywhere.

_How can Jim be so convincing with words alone?_

John had pondered many sleepless nights how Jim had Sherlock wrapped around his little finger. All of a sudden, John desperately wanted to know how. Not to use his own techniques against him and take away Sherlock but to use them on Mycroft.

John had become obsessed with getting laid. Being on the receiving end wasn't near satisfying enough but he knew Mycroft wouldn't do _that_ with him. It was well established from the beginning he wasn't into men in that way.

Unfortunately this felt like a challenge to John. It was consuming him like a fire, burning out of control. He knew he had to consult Jim or he'd be driven to insanity.

Six weeks earlier he had his opportunity. Sherlock had only just started showering and would likely spend the rest of the hour grooming himself. Jim was sitting all alone in the living area, in Sherlock's chair, carving away at an apple with his pocket knife, eating small uneven pieces.

"Hey." John said with a forced grin. Jim responded with a nod but remained focused on his apple. "How are things?" Jim shrugged. "School's…" John said lifting his shoulders.

"Good." Jim finished. He looked up from his work. "You need something?"

"Um yeah actually…" John said stuffing his hands in his pockets. "It's a bit odd."

"Mm?" Jim hummed.

"Feel like a bit of a fool asking you…" John said looking at the ground. "You being fourteen n all…" Jim looked at him void of emotion yet with a hint of interest. "I was just wondering… well there's this guy. My boyfriend actually."

"Oh the mystery man." Jim grinned. "When'm I finally going to meet him? He does seem suave, picking you up in those sexy black cars."

"He's real shy is all." John shrugged and Jim nodded. "I just… I was wondering… You get Sherlock to do stuff like… all the time. Stuff he doesn't want to do but you don't really 'force' him into doing per se." John looked away from Jim's gaze. "I mean, it's harmless stuff. Doing the dishes, going to bed at a decent hour… stuff I could never make him do."

"You want me to tell you all my secrets?" Jim pursed his lips slightly. "Is that it?"

"Not all of em. Just you know… how'd you get him to do all that stuff?" John inquired.

"Reinforcement." Jim shrugged.

"Like operant conditioning?" John suggested.

"Yeah." Jim said staring off across the room at nothingness. His brows furrowed as he came to a thought. "But that's not what you need."

"What do you mean?" John asked removing his hands from his pockets.

Jim sighed and returned his attention to his apple. "Tell the man what you think he wants to hear."

"Like what?" John asked looking at Jim strangely. Jim shrugged and continued carving away at the apple. He stopped and turned it around.

"You think Sherlock'll like it?" He asked plainly.

"IOU?" John asked perplexed.

Jim snorted and smirked at the apple. "It's a heart. Silly." He grinned at the apple.

"Ah." John said smacking his lips. He shrugged. "Yeah, sure… why not?"

"Not much of an artist." Jim said holding the apple up to the light. "Gets the point across nonetheless." John's eye twitched slightly. He was starting to get the creeps.

"Yeah. Well thanks."

"Any time." Jim said coldly returning to work.

John mulled over Jim's 'advice' for quite some time.

_Lie to Mycroft's face; tell him what you think he wants to hear. That will end well._

John spent endless hours reflecting on himself. When he'd come to no conclusions he'd turn his focus to his courses. When he felt like his eyes were going to start bleeding, he returned to thinking about Mycroft.

The idea of shagging him sent a warm sensation from the top of his head, down his throat, into his stomach, making it flutter, and finally settled into his groin making him burn with desire. He'd palm at his crotch, but never went as far as jerking off thinking about Mycroft. He wanted to be able to face Mycroft when he called him in to discuss the wild-goose chase and not think about sex.

It was proving difficult. When Mycroft didn't self-medicate his headaches, he would pace the floor of his office and John kept trying to catch a glance of his arse as he walked back and forth.

_Why do his trousers have to fit so loose? I'm going to kill his tailor._

John was coursing with hormones that were clouding his thoughts. The death count had hit over one hundred and all John could think about was _sex sex sex._

Mycroft had shown a strong disinterest in sex. Their kisses had been chaste, obligatory, and John felt sexually repressed. He was a tiger ready to pounce.

He had to be stealthy though, catch him at the right moment, then attack. John felt like he was dying waiting. He was surprised Mycroft hadn't caught on to him drooling and mentally stripping him every time he was in the room.

John was more than ready when the day came for him to make his move. Mycroft was relatively stable, he'd been reading through some case files, and seemed calm for once. He let out a heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry I haven't been the most attentive person of late." Mycroft said with a sad grin. He frowned and kept reading. John was seated across from his desk waiting for him to finish reading so they could go out for dinner. John uncrossed his legs and scooted forward to the edge of his seat. He reached out and grabbed Mycroft's hand.

"It's fine." He said with a reassuring smile. "At least we're spending time together." Mycroft gave a small laugh.

"Physically occupying the same room. I don't consider that 'spending time together'."

"Maybe we could do some spending time together, later on." John shrugged rubbing the back of Mycroft's hand. Mycroft's hand trembled slightly as John pulled his hand away slowly, running his fingers softly over the back of his hand.

_Take a risk._

Mycroft looked at John. John thought of one of Sherlock's lectures.

_The tell-tale signs of physical attraction: the pulse quickens, the palms begin to sweat, the pupils dilate, and the voice lowers in pitch but the most subtle and important clue everyone misses…_

John smirked and the corner of Mycroft's lip tugged ever so slightly.

_Oh I am so in there._

John effortlessly coerced Mycroft into having dinner at the high rise. He couldn't hide his arousal for long, nor did he want to. They sat side by side on the sofa, John turned in slightly so his knees brushed up against Mycroft's.

Mycroft was full of apologies that night. He was sorry he wasn't paying enough attention to John, that he'd been so stressed, that they hadn't been intimate in quite some time.

"My mood has been absolutely dreadful." Mycroft said with a sigh.

"I can understand." John said running his finger over the top of Mycroft's ear, and bringing it back around to stroke down his jaw. He brought his finger to the tip of Mycroft's chin and let it rest on the dimple. John pursed his lips slightly and hummed.

John withdrew his finger and raised his arm to rest on the back of the sofa. He leaned to the side and titled his head slightly, taking all of Mycroft in. Mycroft blushed slightly at the attention. John smiled and Mycroft mirrored him.

Mycroft was being coy. John took it as a sign of surrender. He nearly had him on board mentally.

_We need to be in bed or he'll never consent. If we start here we'll never finish. All right, 'you must be tired' no… too demanding. 'You look tired' might take it as an insult. 'You've had a long day.' No that's even worse. Oh I have it._

"Do you mind if I sleep here tonight? Had a long day." John asked with a small pout.

"Sure… of course." Mycroft said with a nod.

From there, everything escalated quickly. Dinner was forgotten and bed-sheets were turned down. They were lying on their sides, face to face, entwined in a deep and passionate kiss, when Mycroft pushed John away.

John had been fondling Mycroft through his trousers and there was hardly any response. John had anticipated this, he was actually quite pleased Mycroft was having trouble getting it up but Mycroft was ashamed.

John had never had a problem with blood flow; even at his drunkest he could still manage to get it up.

"I'm sorry… I can't…" Mycroft started.

"Sh." John hushed. "It's ok." He stroked Mycroft's hair. "We don't have to do anything tonight."

"It's not that I don't want to… I do…" Mycroft was getting emotional. John started to panic. He was going to break down and make John feel really awkward with his raging erection. He had to come up with something fast.

_'It doesn't matter.' That'll make him think I don't want it. 'Don't worry about it.' Dismisses his feelings. 'We can do it some other time' But I want it now! Oh fuck I've made it this far._

He closed the gap, pressed himself against Mycroft. John looked him straight in the eye and his mind flashed the mental image of the apple.

"I love you."

Mycroft's body went lax. He looked at John blankly. John felt stricken with panic. He frantically drew Mycroft in for a kiss and was relieved when his embrace was met with approval. John reached out for the night-stand to retrieve the lubricant from the drawer. His hand graced the ivory grip of Mycroft's revolver, the chain of an old pocket watch, and some diamond cuff links, before it rested on the bottle of lubricant tucked away in the back.

John pulled it out and set it aside to return his focus on keeping Mycroft from panicking and running off. Mycroft had seen the bottle, he knew what John was planning on, he should have known the moment John walked in the door, but he was off his game. His defences were down and John was using this to his full advantage.

Mycroft was tense but willing. John's imagination was running wild, just the thought of the act felt like it was going to undo him. John made quick work of Mycroft's waist-coat buttons.

_Buttons buttons everywhere._

Mycroft undid his tie while John carefully unbuttoned each of his shirt buttons, he gently pushed Mycroft's shirt and waist-coat back to run a line of kisses down Mycroft's exposed chest.

John's hands were uneasy and shook as he tried to unbutton Mycroft's trousers. He had to take in a deep breath and try to relax. His nerves were shaken and stirred. He never thought in a million years he would have the opportunity to have at the British government.

Mycroft epitomized the uptight, arrogant, elite upper-crust of society and John was determined to fuck the very posh off his face like he had promised. John's mind had gone primal, he had to fight the strong urge to tear and claw, buck and fuck. He knew he'd want this again. Seeing Mycroft undone underneath him, without even having started, it was turning John on a bit too much.

John gently rolled Mycroft on to his back and removed his trousers completely. John undid the cap to the lubricant bottle and Mycroft tensed. John coated his fingers liberally, brought his hand down to Mycroft's arse, and leaned forward to try kiss away Mycroft's tension.

Mycroft was rigid with apprehension as John tried to ease him with light reassuring kisses. He circled Mycroft's entrance with his middle finger. John could already tell it was going to be a tight fit. It didn't help Mycroft was clenching up the closer John got to breaching his entrance.

John slid the tip of his finger in slowly and was met with great resistance.

"Relax, I've got you." John said stroking back Mycroft's hair with his free hand. Mycroft whimpered lightly. John knew how much it hurt initially.

_If he's like this with one finger…_

"Do I need to stop?" John's superego took over and he held still, searching Mycroft's pained face. Mycroft shook his head. "Deep breaths, it helps." Mycroft took in some shuddered breaths and John waited for his breathing to even out before he slid his finger the rest of the way in. He avoided Mycroft's prostate, and started to stroke his finger against the cavity walls.

John knew it was far more pleasurable to have fingers caress and explore rather than be pumped in and out. The gentle stroking sent shock waves of pleasure through Mycroft and he shuddered at John's hand.

It was time for the second finger, which slid in with greater ease than the first but was still met with resistance. Mycroft's facial expressions were varied. It was as if half his face was enjoying the experience and the other half was in pain.

He had his eyes closed, but one was more squinted than the other, his lip was tugging upward in a sort of snarl, and he had one brow furrowed. John had to hold back from laughing. He squirmed on John's fingers and made a variety of strange noises that John had never heard before.

He made groany whines and grunty moans with the vocal range of a skilled opera singer. He went from low pitched 'oh's and 'unh's to high pitched 'eh's and 'ah's. Mycroft bit his bottom lip and clenched his eyes tight.

"I-I think… I think I'm ready." He said nervously. John slid his fingers out slowly and Mycroft winced. John unbuttoned his trousers, pulled down the zip, and released his cock which was painfully erect.

John took extra care to lubricate himself more than adequately. He applied even more lubricant to Mycroft's entrance. Mycroft opened his eyes just long enough to become worried.

John stood on his knees between Mycroft's legs, waiting for Mycroft to regain his composure. Mycroft's legs shook as he drew them to his chest. John tried to help him keep his positioning, while lining his cock up with his entrance. Mycroft tensed and clenched when he felt the initial stretch.

The tight constriction on the head of John's penis was enough to make him pull out. He never expected it would hurt on the giving end. John caught his breath and tried to relax. He lined up again and willed Mycroft to relax.

The second attempt was less painful but John didn't make it far in before being met with resistance. He paused, waited for Mycroft to relax, and slid in further. It wasn't until halfway in that John was hit with intense pleasure. A groan escaped from the depths of John's throat.

It was more amazing than he thought it would be. The deeper he went the better it felt. It wasn't just the tightness that was driving him wild, it was the throbbing and pulsating contractions against his cock, massaging it. There wasn't a feeling like it in the world.

John entered fully and stopped. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably to get used to the feeling. John started grinding and Mycroft let out a long moan. John felt incredibly close. It wasn't going to take much movement to undo him completely.

_God, fuck, this is hot._

John kept grinding into Mycroft, gyrating his hips. He preferred being screwed when he was on bottom. Getting drilled was too intense and wasn't even half as enjoyable on the receiving end as it was for the person on top.

John clutched on to the bedspread. He bit his bottom lip and shut his eyes, trying to hold back from coming too soon but the feeling was overwhelming. He felt an agonizing ache for release.

He didn't want to pull out but he wasn't sure if he should stay in.

_The Catch 22 of gay sex._

John didn't have much time to ponder his options.

"Unh." He grunted. "Come." John said furrowing his eyebrows and concentrating on anything that would bring him down. Mycroft grabbed the collar of John's shirt and pulled him down into a lip-crushing kiss. Their tongues met and John's hips started moving on auto-pilot.

John was quickly consumed with a rush of energy, every muscle in his body went stiff, and he thrust forward as he released deep into Mycroft. He made a delayed grunt as he felt every last bit of energy leave him at once. He had a momentary loss of vision and fell forward.

John lay on top of Mycroft's chest trying to catch his breath. He instantly felt exhausted and felt himself start to drift off. His breathing evened out, his heart rate returned to normal, and his head started to clear. He pulled out of Mycroft slowly.

He felt like he weighed a tonne, his arms and legs had turned to jelly. He couldn't and didn't want to get off of Mycroft's chest.

"Better?" Mycroft asked placing a hand on John's back.

"Uh-huh." John said with a nod. Mycroft gave him a small pat on the back. John let out a sigh.

"Smoke?"

"No." John said wrapping his arms around Mycroft and sliding his hands under his back to hold him tight. He didn't want to let go. "I love you."

_I don't want to be left alone._


	37. Chapter 37

"John welcome, have a seat." Mistress Adler said with a smile. "This is Mr. Wilkes, Sebastian's father.

"Hallo." Mr. Wilkes rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and shifted uncomfortably. "You're the boy's…"

"Cousin." John finished.

"Right." Mr. Wilkes nodded. John walked over and took the seat next to him. There was a tangible tension in the air.

"Let's get down to business, shall we?" Mistress Adler said clapping her hands together. "As I was telling Mr. Wilkes, Sherlock has been having some trouble of late with some of the boys at our school."

_Some? Try most… if not all._

"While we do want the boys to try and work out their grievances on their own, we do have to step in every once in a while when we feel the safety of a student is threatened."

"My Sebastian didn't lay a finger on that boy!" Mr. Wilkes interjected. "He'll tell you himself!"

"Oh I'm most certain he will." Mistress Adler said leaning her bum against her desk. She folded her arms and gave Mr. Wilkes a stern look.

"Listen, you have to believe me. My boy wouldn't harm a fly."

"We have a zero tolerance policy for violence at our school Mr. Wilkes."

"But he didn't hit him." Mr. Wilkes held out his hands begging for her to believe him.

"I have a reliable source and several witnesses that have told me it was your son who struck Sherlock Holmes." Mistress Adler pressed the intercom. "Kate, would you send in Mr. Holmes and Mr. Wilkes."

John looked towards Mr. Wilkes who was on the verge of tears. John wasn't sure why he felt sorry for the man, but he was tempted to reach out and pat him on the back.

Sherlock walked in first and it was clear why John was called in.

"Oh my God." John's mouth dropped. Sherlock's lip was busted open; he had a cut along his cheek bone, and a swollen black eye. His blazer was torn at the shoulder and his hair was a mess. He tongued at his cracked lip and grimaced when he saw John.

Sebastian Wilkes trailed behind him like a dead man walking. He looked at the floor and didn't dare meet his father's eye. It was apparent he had been crying.

"Who would like to go first?" Mistress Adler said looking over the two boys. Sherlock looked to her briefly. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock straightened up and took in a breath. "I was in the stairwell when I was approached by Sebastian and his group of friends, one of which I had never met. The boy, Baynes I believe it was, called me a limp wristed sausage jockey. Then proceeded to harass me, telling me to lift up my shirt. Which I was later informed is in reference to the derogatory term 'shirt lifter'." Sherlock took in a breath. "Sebastian and his friends proceeded to point and laugh. Billy was the one that started pushing me around and the others followed suit. The one they refer to as Porky, Shinwell Johnson, he was the one that threw me against the wall were the back of my head came in contact with an exposed drywall nail."

Sherlock looked at John briefly and his eyes quickly darted away. "I sustained the majority of my injuries from Sebastian, who is as you know, a member of the Seishin Shotokan Karate Club." Sebastian looked like he was close to tears. "He relentlessly beat me, called me a variety of derogatory terms, and threw me down a flight of stairs. The senior prefect that found me will attest to these claims."

The room fell silent and Sherlock let out a sigh.

"Mr. Wilkes?" Mistress Adler offered the floor for him to speak.

"I didn't do it!" He shouted indignantly. "I was in the library! Ask anyone!" He started to cry. "He's lying! Tell them you're lying. I wasn't even there!" Sebastian broke down into sobs and covered his face with his hands. "Papa I'm sorry."

"How do you know this boy is telling the truth?" His father asked outraged.

"There were witnesses Mr. Wilkes. Even Mr. Johnson admitted to pushing Sherlock Holmes. Every one of his friends said Sebastian was the one that hit him." Mistress Adler said smoothly. "We do not tolerate bullying. Our students have a right to be safe in our school. Given the evidence against your son, I'm considering permanently excluding him from this school. You have the right to appeal with the Board of Governors, if you feel my actions are unjust."

"Wait. Wait." John said standing up. "Now… I do believe Sebastian shows a great deal of remorse for his actions." John shook his head. "I don't think his exclusion is necessary."

Both Sebastian and his father looked towards John.

"Mr. Watson…" Irene Adler started

"Listen, I'm not looking to press chargers. Give him a suspension if you must; make him write up an apology."

"I'll see to it the boy never does anything like this ever again." Mr. Wilkes agreed. "Right Sebastian?" Sebastian wiped his nose with his sleeve and nodded.

"Sherlock?" Mistress Adler asked. Sherlock gritted his teeth. He shoved his hands in his pockets and remained silent. "Do you believe this course of discipline is adequate?" Mistress Adler's gaze was unrelenting. Sherlock shuffled his foot on the floor. He shrugged.

"I suppose." Sherlock mumbled.

"Sebastian, would you start by giving Sherlock a sincere verbal apology." Sebastian looked at her concerned. "Go on." She said nodding towards Sherlock.

"Sherlock… I'm sorry." Sebastian said nervously. "I didn't mean to do that stuff to you. I won't do it ever again." Sherlock glared at him and Sebastian backed away. "Look, I'm sorry people have been calling you queer and retarded and stuff but you don't have to go and…" Sebastian stopped. "I'm sorry. Can I go now?" Sebastian asked Mistress Adler anxiously.

"I'll see you in two weeks. Mr. Wilkes." Mistress Adler motioned to the door. Mr. Wilkes stood up and rushed his son out of the door.

"John, I believe Sherlock should take the rest of the day off so he can recover. I would like to meet with him tomorrow morning to discuss the other students that were involved." John nodded and ushered Sherlock out. John gritted his teeth as they made their way down the stairs, through the corridors, and out the front doors.

"Sherlock Holmes." John growled. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock said with a smile. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked with a slight skip in his step. He took in a deep breath. "Beautiful day out, lovely weather, don't you think?"

"You framed an innocent boy! Why Sherlock?"

"Innocent?" Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please."

"You know he wasn't there, what would possess you to do such a thing?"

"Wait." Sherlock stopped and turned. "Can we get Jim out too?"

"No, we are headed straight home. You're going to your room and you will sit there, bored out of your mind until I can think of a better punishment."

Sherlock snorted. "Right."

"I'm going to have to call your brother." Sherlock rolled his eyes. He pulled his hands out of his pocket and hopped up on to a flower bed. He did a balancing act and paid no attention to John's glares. "Did you even look at those files he sent?"

"Haven't come around to it yet." Sherlock said jumping down.

"You've been doing jack shit round the flat! How have you not gotten round to it?" John shouted. Sherlock sped up and started kicking a rock across the pavement.

"Don't know." Sherlock shrugged. "Busy."

"Sherlock, people are dying."

"People die all the time John. That's what people do." Sherlock laughed. "My, it is gorgeous out." Sherlock turned around and walked backwards. "Can we go to the park?"

"What is wrong with you?"

"Oh a multitude of things. Would you like to review the diagnoses packet when we get home?"

"Sherlock, can you at least tell me who really hit you?" Sherlock's face went blank. He turned around. "Oh, I should have known."

"It wasn't out of anger. We were trying to send a message." Sherlock said angrily. "It was the only way-"

"Or you could have reported those kids to your Form Tutor… or anyone for that matter! They would have taken care of it." John sighed. "You two suffered in silence for far too long and then… look what happened! Have you seen your face?"

"Yes, it looks pretty bashed up." Sherlock laughed. "Might have gone a bit overboard." John stopped and rubbed his forehead. Sherlock turned once more. "They had it coming to them."

"I know… I know… but this wasn't the way to go about getting them in trouble."

"Emotional torment is so much harder to prove. They would have walked away with a slap on the wrist." Sherlock let out a groan. "Then you! You had to go and be all sappy 'don't suspend the boy! Think of his bright future!'" Sherlock let out a laugh. "Sentiment."

"I can't believe you." John said catching up. He grabbed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock looked at him confused. John rolled up Sherlock sleeve. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Between the toes and no I haven't been using." Sherlock said tearing away from John and rolling his sleeve down.

"Jim really did a number on you." John said grimacing as he looked at Sherlock's eye.

"Oh I'm perfectly fine."

"Why didn't you… you know…"

"Bash his face in?" Sherlock asked lifting his eyebrows. "Because John, unlike you, I'm not a sadist."

"How… how am I a sadist?" John asked confused, Sherlock only smirked in response. "How does _that_ make me a sadist?"

"You are drawing all sorts of energy from my brother's pain. I've never seen you so happy." Sherlock said with a wicked grin. "I must say I'm rather enjoying it as well."

"He's scared out of his mind Sherlock! There's a massive threat to the nation's security and we are scrambling to find out who is behind it before time runs out."

"Before time runs out." Sherlock chuckled.

"It isn't funny Sherlock." John whined. "You need to look over that file."

"I will… if we turn back and break Jim out."

"No. You will look at it no matter what. I'm serious. You're in trouble."

"That will last all of ten minutes." Sherlock yawned. John was almost certain Sherlock was right but he didn't want him to know that.

When they got to Baker Street and walked through the front door to the sitting room, John was instantly met with Sherlock's defiance.

"All right, off you go, to your room." John said pointing to Sherlock's door. Sherlock just laughed. He started pulling glassware out of the cabinets and began setting them up. "Sherlock, put those away, you're not on holiday, get your arse to your room." John grabbed a flask and started to put it back. Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

"I'm using that."

"Let go." John hissed. Sherlock pulled the flask out of John's hand and placed it back on the table. John's blood started to boil. "Sherlock Holmes! Go to your room!"

"No." Sherlock scoffed. He reached up and pulled a bag of sugar out of the cabinet. John grabbed the bag out of his hand and slammed it on the counter.

"You are an infuriating little brat!"

"Whatever." Sherlock chuckled and grabbed the bag of sugar once more. John grabbed Sherlock by the shirt and twisted his hands into the fabric. He pushed him back against the fridge and gave him a good shake. John barred his teeth and looked deep into Sherlock's eyes.

Those piercing green-blue eyes.

_Kiss him._

John crushed their lips together and pinned Sherlock against the fridge. He ground himself against Sherlock.

"Oh God, fuck me." John said breathlessly. Sherlock looked at him in terror. John breathed heavily out of his nose and looked at Sherlock with lust. Sherlock broke away from John's grip.

"All right! All right! I'll go to my room." Sherlock said stumbling away. John stood in the kitchen in a daze. He ran his hands through his hair and let out a puff of air.

_Tell him what he wants to hear._

He laughed.

_How long has he been wanting to hear that?_


	38. Chapter 38

John was fast becoming an adrenaline junkie. Sherlock was finally interested in the case once more and he refused to do anything that didn't involve legwork. John couldn't be happier running alongside his best friend, hopping fences, and hunting down thugs.

Mycroft's office was aggravating in comparison. He would sit there bored out of his mind while Mycroft would silently read through pages and pages of documents. Occasionally Mycroft would think out loud, but only to ask rhetorical questions. John was frustrated with his slow pace.

Sherlock needed Mycroft for the case files. Mycroft's international ties with China and the Russian Federation were proving to be invaluable.

Thus far the attacks appeared random, in small villages with church clock towers. There were few victims and very little media coverage. The largest explosion was the Belarus incident which the Belarusian Government covered up and assured the public that it wasn't a deliberate terrorist attack, but rather the result of leaky pipes.

_Another 'Gas Leak'._

Russia was the first to come to Mycroft with the news that the Time-Wise Terrorists had severed their ties with Al Qaeda. Key members of the proscribed group were turning up dead in the middle of town squares and it was becoming a media frenzy.

"How is it a bad thing?" John had asked Mycroft who was deeply concerned by the news. "They're terrorists!"

"They are becoming more and more involved in the weapons trade; they seek to take out their competition. It is only a matter of time before this matter goes nuclear." Mycroft breathed into his hands, his eyes were starting to water. "America is on board with these… 'Vigilantes' they're calling them." Mycroft rubbed his temples. "We've discussed with their president that these men are not on their side." Mycroft steepled his fingers and brought them to his lips. "He isn't entirely convinced… our own parliament isn't convinced either. They are split… right down the middle."

Mycroft was close to breaking, he slid John the folder with a trembling hand. "I must warn you, the contents are gruesome. The bodies have been… mutilated… some horrifically." Mycroft said uneasily. "They've left a symbol on the deceased, the same cipher on each body. We believe it's a warning." John went to grab the folder and Mycroft grabbed John's hand. "Don't let anyone get their hands on this information."

"Of course." John nodded.

"Don't look at it John." Mycroft said shaking his head. "I don't want the images to haunt you."

"I'm fine." John said pulling his hand away. "I haven't had a night terror in days." Mycroft grabbed John's hand again and looked at him sorrowfully. "I'm fine, honest." He leaned across the desk and pressed his lips against Mycroft's. Mycroft kissed him back weakly. John pulled away and stroked the side of Mycroft's face, wiping away a tear that had rolled down his cheek. "You'll be fine."

When John returned to Baker Street Sherlock was pacing the floor, viewing photos he had tacked up on the wall. John looked at the wall over Sherlock's desk and titled his head, a spray painted bison skull was staring at John angrily, Sherlock had been redecorating again.

"Hey Sherlock… any reason that bison is wearing headphones?" John asked.

"Never mind that John! Look!" Sherlock said pointing to the pictures of clock towers.

"Where's Jim?" John asked looking around.

"Concentrate John." Sherlock scolded with his hands on his hips.

"All right… Oh by the way." John handed Sherlock the file. Sherlock threw the file like a Frisbee across the room.

"Focus!" He shouted.

"But-" John looked at the scattered documents and photographs on the floor.

"John I'm near a major break-through, could you _please_." Sherlock twisted John's head to view the photographs. Elizabeth tower had a dark red X over it. John pointed to it and Sherlock smacked his hand. "Don't be an idiot John."

"King's Cross?" John asked.

"No, no. Too much traffic. Too many prying eyes." Sherlock said looking over the photo. Sherlock began pulling photographs off the wall and started throwing them on the floor. "We need to eliminate the impossible."

"How do you know it's impossible?" John said picking up one of the discarded photographs. "They are highly organized and very clever, they could very well infiltrate Westminster Cathedral."

"Brilliant, John."

"Really?"

"Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot." Sherlock said snappily. "No, no. We're looking for _real_ targets." Sherlock looked intently at the photographs. "The bells all rang like alarm clocks. However, all the churches in London with clock towers have anticlockwise bells. And all the clock towers with clockwise bells are self-winding." Sherlock steepled his fingers and brought them to his chin. Sherlock stared at a particular photo of Great Saint Bart's Church.

His eyes widened as he came to a brilliant realization that sounded strikingly similar to an orgasm. "Oh!" He shouted. John looked at Sherlock in surprise. Sherlock turned and grabbed John by the shoulders. "John! We're going on a date." He said giving John a pat on the shoulder. He went off to retrieve his shoes.

"What?"

"A date John, it's when two people who like each other go out and have fun." Sherlock said hopping on one foot as he slid his shoe on.

"Sherlock I'm pretty sure you're not suggesting we actually go out on a 'date'. At least… I hope not."

"Come on, there isn't a moment to lose." Sherlock said pushing John toward the door.

"Sherlock! The photographs!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and started picking up the evidence he had thrown all over the place. John helped him get the file back together. He caught a glimpse of one of the photos and instantly regretted it.

_He didn't say anything about children._

Sherlock loomed over John's shoulder.

"Ancient Chinese dialect." Sherlock said coldly.

"How old do you think he was?"

"Six… perhaps… small for his age." Sherlock placed a hand on John's shoulder. "We'd better get going." John nodded solemnly. He choked back his feelings.

_Vigilantes indeed._

John passed Sherlock the last photo, he stuffed it into the folder, tucked the folder under his arm, and offered John a hand up.

"All right. Where are you taking me on this 'date'?" John asked with a small flutter of excitement.

"Well I thought we'd start off the evening with dinner, that is after we run a quick errand first. I've had quite the craving for tapas of late. I know a place, Soho, owner owes me a favour."

"Soho." John groaned.

"Come now John! Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Off on a beach somewhere with your sanity." John huffed. "Why are we going off to Soho when we could get a sandwich downstairs?"

"Come on, we have a terrorist organization to take down and there isn't much time."

John and Sherlock ran down stairs and on to Baker Street where they hailed a cab. On the cab ride Sherlock spoke animatedly about the case.

"In Maramures the town's clock winder would come by once weekly to tend to the clock. He'd crank the clock until the three hundred pound weight reached the top of the spire. On the day he died he wound the clock as usual, however, when the weight reached the top of the tower, it fell, releasing every bit of kinetic energy into the clock's gears which spun out of control, sparking the explosives that were stored inside." Sherlock hummed a moment. "A simple mechanism really. Far more simple than the pocket watch which acts as a trigger rather than a spark, but they work on relatively the same principle."

John looked at Sherlock in awe as he spoke. The boy was a bloody genius. He was glad he used his powers for good.

"The escapement, in this case, came from the pendulum, which underwent catastrophic failure once the weight reached its maximum height. Without anything to catch the weight, it plummeted. Unleashing chaos." Sherlock smirked. "However, this doesn't explain why the explosion had such a destructive force if the clockwork was only loaded with trinitrotoluene. The explosive force of Chernobyl, if you recall."

"The clock was loaded with something else?" John asked puzzled.

"The bells John. The ringing of the bells." Sherlock said excited. "Right here!" Sherlock shouted at the cabbie. The cab pulled up in front of an old red brick building with a massive tower.

" _Ora pro nobis_ " John read.

"Pray for us."

"But this church doesn't have a clock." John pointed out. The cab came to a stop and Sherlock hopped out eagerly. John slid out and followed him to the front door. Sherlock started pounding on the door.

"Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" He shouted.

"Sherlock! For Christ's sake." John said putting a hand on his shoulder. An elderly man opened the door and squinted at the boys through half-moon glasses. "My sincerest apologies!" John pleaded. Sherlock made way for the stairs.

"Desculpe!" The elderly man shouted. "Moço! Desculpe!" John chased after Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" They started running up the spiral stairs. John was hot on Sherlock's heels. He was grateful for his extensive daily exercises as they climbed the never-ending winding staircase. John started losing his breath as they reached the very top. They entered a giant room with four large open windows. Light cascaded through on every side, in the middle of the room was a large sheet that Sherlock pulled away to reveal a giant copper bell.

"A new addition John! From a generous donor!" Sherlock laughed. "Rigged with enough explosives to wipe the entire borough of Soho off the map!"

John stepped back cautiously. "Sherlock…" Sherlock smiled maliciously.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Sherlock reached out and ghosted his fingers on the shiny copper surface. "A gift! For welcoming him with open arms. Ut Christiani ita et Romani sitis"

_Dedicated to the church of Saint Patrick by J.M. x_

* * *

"Wow, our guys were looking high and low in all the wrong places this entire time!" John said taking a sip of his wine. They sat side by side on a green bench in front of the window underneath a string of wine bottle lights. The lighting of the restaurant set the mood for romance but all John could think about was how brilliant Sherlock was.

The owner of Tapas Brindisa was a real off character named Angelo. He looked like an escaped convict and when Sherlock told John that he had once been indicted for murder, he wasn't surprised. He lit a candle for the centre of the table and John gave him a crooked smile and prayed he wouldn't strangle him with his meaty arms.

_Note to self, don't critique the food._

"While Mycroft's goons were out hunting down a clock tower with an out of beat pendulum, the answer was right in front of him the entire time."

"It was right in front of you as well." John said lifting one eyebrow.

"Give me a break… I'm just a _kid_."

John chuckled. "And a brilliant one at that. How did you know it was in the bell?"

"While the bells were synchronized with the clockwork in Belarus and Maramures, they weren't in Jaslo. Yet they all rang like an old alarm clock." Sherlock leaned back. "How could an anticlockwise bell chime without anyone to pull the rope?"

"So the bomb inside the bell vibrated the metal causing it to ring out like an alarm clock?"

"Precisely!" Sherlock looked around a moment. "But perhaps we shouldn't shout out 'bomb' in a loaded restaurant." John furrowed his brows and nodded. He leaned in. "The writing on the dead, I've seen it before. Over and over again they wrote 'help me' on the victim's bodies."

"Help me." John repeated. He hummed. "Help me."

"How would we be able to help them? Why?" Sherlock asked in concern. "That is about the only part that has me perplexed."

"M'aider." John said.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Help me. M'aider. May day. Sherlock!" John shouted in shock as Sherlock grabbed both sides of his face locked lips with him. Sherlock slipped him the tongue and John pushed him back. "What was that for?"

"Absolutely brilliant John!"

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"Well… suppose I have my moments now and again." John smiled.

"May Day! That's… that's tomorrow."

"Holy shit."

"Literally." Sherlock said with concern. "That bomb was going to go off… tomorrow."

"We caught it in the nick of time."

Sherlock chuckled. "If I don't hear another time pun for the rest of my life it will be too soon."

"Well I can sleep soundly tonight knowing that every bell in London is being checked over for explosives." John took another sip of wine. "Not a tea bell will go unturned."

"What a waste of police force."

"You mean to say the church bell at Saint Patrick's was the only one?"

"Well… there's only so much you can purchase when you're down nine million Euros."

"Shit, that's right." John said looking down at his hands. "You think they found Jim?"

"Not likely." Sherlock said looking out the window. The bruise on his eye had turned a nasty jaundice colour and still looked like it hurt to touch.

"He must've really loved you. Busting your face up like that."

"He wanted to make them stop laughing." Sherlock sighed.

"Did they?"

"They fear me." Sherlock shrugged. "It's more than what I could have asked for."

"Not the best way to make friends."

"Worked on you."

"How so?"

"If you weren't so afraid I'd turn you into the police we would have never shared a flat, been sent on this wild adventure. You would have sat at home, reading a book."

"Which one?"

"Twilight."

John snorted. "Yeah… no thanks. Think I'd rather take my chances in the valley of the queer wearing nothing but a mesh jockstrap."

"Sounds like a fun evening. Perhaps you could tie a mattress to your front."

"Anyone wants a go they could push me over and have at it?"

"Wouldn't be much different than usual."

"Ow… burn…" John said with a hiss. "I'll have you know…" John started. He shut his mouth. Sherlock scooted back. He looked at John with sad eyes.

"What you said before… when you went to hang up the phone… with Mycroft." Sherlock looked down at the table. "You didn't mean it."

"It just slipped, I'm sorry." John sighed.

John had been so caught up in the excitement after the police arrived, when he called Mycroft he was ecstatic, John's emotions were all over the place and he let slip an 'I love you'. He had thought perhaps Sherlock didn't over hear in all the commotion. He thought wrong.

"I know my brother and I… don't ever get along." Sherlock sighed. "But it's beyond me why you would say a thing like that to him."

"I don't know." John said with a sigh. "When he told me he loved me…" John started. "I just." John grimaced. "I thought he'd leave me if I didn't say I love him back."

Sherlock looked at John. "That's the most selfish thing you've ever done John Watson."

_It's worse than you think._

"You told my brother you loved him so he'd keep having sex with you?"

_No… it's exactly as bad as you think._

"Sherlock."

"Don't." Sherlock said. "Save us the trouble. Here's how the argument will go: I say you're a whore and a terrible person for leading Mycroft on, you bring up Jim, I say it was for the case when we both know that isn't true. I was wrong, so I'll storm off because you were right." Sherlock let out a sigh. "We were both in the wrong and have no grounds to fight one another. So let's eat." Sherlock looked at the menu. "I'm sick of fucking potatoes."

"You know…" Sherlock gave John a pleading look. "If you'd just eat them instead of fucking them…" Sherlock laughed a low and throaty laugh. John thought a moment. "You know you really defused a bomb there."

"Enough with the puns John."

"But it wasn't a clock one this time." Sherlock's lip twitched. "Looks like you've got a little tic there." Sherlock let out a loud groan.

"I'm gonna clock you in a second."

"Ooh, good one." John chuckled. "Not sure what to order." John said looking over the menu.

"Neither do I, never had tapas before."

"But you said you were craving tapas. How can you crave something you've never had before?"

"I crave the unknown."

"And yet you shack up with boring old me."

"I wouldn't say you're boring." Sherlock shrugged. "Hm… how would I describe John Watson?" Sherlock hummed to himself. "A homely little nag with the heart of a soldier and the sex drive of a jack-rabbit in spring." John scowled. "How would you describe me then?"

"Arrogant." Sherlock nodded. "Ignorant." Sherlock considered it. "Exuberant." Sherlock smiled. "And a complete dick. But hey! You are what you eat."

"Then you sir, are a potato."

"So why don't you fuck me?"

_The worst come-on in history._


	39. Chapter 39

"What are you typing?" Sherlock asked packing up his glassware into cardboard boxes.

"Blog."

"About?"

"Us."

"You mean me." Sherlock said rubbing the grease off a glass stopper.

"Why?"

"Well you're typing a lot."

"Conceited little prat." John mumbled.

"Oh and if you're writing up the case, don't mention the part where I fucked you until you screamed. I don't believe Mycroft would appreciate it, seeing as he is your target audience."

"Sherlock." John gritted his teeth.

"He'll likely be your only reader, aside from your therapist." Sherlock rinsed out a glass eyedropper and squeezed it a few times into the sink. "Whatever will you do without me this summer?"

"Finally have some peace and quiet." John said shutting his laptop. "You're really going to go live with your mother the _entire_ summer?"

"It shouldn't be all bad. Grandmother will be there to keep me company." Sherlock's face went sour. "Maybe I should come out to her as well, never have to see her again! Hey John, want to come to the estate? I could feel you up in the kitchen and pronounce my undying love for you!"

"Oh piss off."

"How _are_ things with you and Mycroft?" Sherlock asked with a giggle. John growled. "That good eh? Well, well." Sherlock walked over and thumped John on the head with his finger. "Looks like I struck a nerve."

"We're fine Sherlock."

"I would say unbelievable, but I find it quite believable. Quite believable, John, that you would choose to be miserable with my brother, when you could be miserable with me."

"I am miserable with you." John sighed.

Mycroft had been rejuvenated once the bell bomb was discovered. Ten more like it were found across the globe in China, Russia, and America. James Moriarty was placed number one on America's Most Wanted list. The heroin trade took a major hit once Moriarty went into hiding and truckloads of black tar heroin were being ceased at the borders. More boys were being discovered in active warehouses and old shipyards. Without their ring-leader the organization was falling apart at the seams. Everything was looking up.

Mycroft kicked his Morphine habit and was in stage six of withdrawal. His appetite had returned and he was starting to regain some of the weight he had lost. John hoped he wouldn't go too far with the weight gain because he appeared to be feeding his drug cravings with cake.

They had started to go on real dates and John was constantly finding himself torn between the two brothers. Mycroft was making it more difficult by the day to say no to and Sherlock was making it harder to say yes to.

John was glad that he didn't have to make a definitive decision and that Sherlock was going to his mother's for the summer while Mycroft remained in London.

_That takes care of that._

"What about your birthday?" John asked as Sherlock pulled the skull off the mantel.

"What about it?"

"Well… It's in July right?"

"So?" Sherlock shrugged placing the skull in a box.

"We won't be able to celebrate it."

"Celebrate what? Another year closer to me being legal?" Sherlock chuckled. "No, I don't see the use in celebrating such a thing."

"Oh speaking of births. You hear about Greg's whole baby mama drama?"

"Mrs. Hudson."

"What, did she tell you at Friday afternoon tea with her ladies book club?"

"I do have to say, John, her little get-togethers are an absolute delight." Sherlock said with a grin. "I've never been a fan of prattle, but in this case I do make an exception." Sherlock chuckled. "I've never met such a non sequitur bunch. Friday afternoon tea on a Tuesday? Before eleven? And half the time we drink coffee. And as for the book club! Literature is the last thing on these ladies' minds."

"Perhaps you should join her knitting circle."

"Those ladies are vicious, I wouldn't feel safe in a room with all those knitting needles, one good solid jab to the windpipe and I'd be done for."

"What was the debate topic this week?"

"I'm not certain. It involved George Clooney." Sherlock rubbed his eyes. "That's when I brought up your ex-boyfriend." John's laptop fell off his lap and he scrambled to catch it. He looked at Sherlock with his mouth agape.

"You told the Baker Street Biddies I was _gay_?"

"No." Sherlock said plainly. "I merely said you had an ex-boyfriend who strongly resembles George Clooney. Anything regarding your sexual orientation was inferred."

"Sherlock." John whined.

"This all lead to a deep and philosophical discussion about heteronormativity which lasted all of two minutes; then Mrs. Turner brought in the pastries and cucumber sandwiches."

"Can you believe they're back together?"

"Getting married even." Sherlock said with a hum.

"How do you think that's going to end?"

"Lestrade will repress his homosexual feelings. He'll produce a few offspring once and a while to keep up appearances and then act hurt when she leaves him after twenty years of marriage."

"Doesn't exactly sound like the healthiest of relationships." John sighed.

"How would you know?" Sherlock said lifting his eyebrow.

"Do you think Jim will be stupid enough to come back looking for you?"

"No. I think he's brilliant enough to come back. I love the brilliant ones, they're always so desperate to get caught."

"Why?" John asked giving Sherlock a strange look.

"Appreciation. Applause. At long last, the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience."

"Who's going to be your audience while we're apart?" Sherlock went over to the kitchen table, pulled out the skull and pouted at John. "All right Hamlet, you're making me feel bad." Sherlock turned the skull to face him and spoke softly to it.

"To die, to sleep, no more, and by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to." Sherlock brought the skull close to his face and looked directly into the skull's empty eyes. "'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished."

"Didn't know you recited Shakespeare." John pointed one finger and thought a moment. "Yeah… I distinctly remember your mum said something rather… Shakespearey. Something about a tigress having sons alike."

"Titus Andronicus. _Yet every mother breeds not sons alike._ "

"Is that one of those double negatives?" John scratched the back of his head. "So… are the sons not like each other or… not like their mother?" John rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "I don't get Shakespeare one bit."

"Couples therapy tomorrow?" Sherlock asked returning the skull to the box and focusing his attention on the silverware drawer.

"Huh?" John asked removing his hand from his face.

"You're rubbing the bridge of your nose."

"So?" John asked.

"Just now, you were thinking of Mycroft." Sherlock said pulling out an Arabian dagger out of the drawer. He un-sheathed it, gave the curved blade a quick inspection and nodded in approval. He placed it in the box along with the skull. "I've grouped your reactions to the thought of Mycroft into two categories: either you are impartial at the thought of your next meeting or you dread it. In this case you thought of Mycroft and felt the beginnings of a tension headache. This could be from any number of reasons with the most logical being you're due for another visit with Dr. Thompson."

"That's cheating, you read my calendar." John argued.

"It's called being observant."

"It's called being a cheater." John retorted.

"Your first session of couples therapy, should be fun." Sherlock said with a wicked grin. "I'm sad I won't be able to attend, though I'm certain I'll be mentioned."

"I just want a healthy adult relationship." John groaned.

"No, you want to have your cake and eat it too." Sherlock went to the freezer and started pulling out jars of frozen insects. "Do you believe I'll have time to pin these before this afternoon?" John looked back at the jars and grimaced. He was reminded of the time he opened the fridge and found a dead heron on the bottom shelf. He was just glad he hadn't yet found _human_ body parts in the fridge.

"Do you have to pin them before you go? On my kitchen table? I eat there you know." Sherlock walked up behind John's chair and started placing the jars on the mantel.

"This one's still moving." Sherlock said holding a jar up to John's ear. John shrieked and moved away. "It's only a little bug. Here let me show you." Sherlock went to open the lid.

"No! Get that thing away from me!" John shouted as he climbed up on to the arm of his chair. "I hate grasshoppers!"

"Really?" Sherlock asked with a malicious grin. The grasshopper's leg twitched and John jumped. His heart was racing. Sherlock pretended to drop the jar. "Whoops." He said catching it.

"Sherlock!" John screamed.

"You sound like a little girl!" John landed a kick square in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock dropped the jar and lid popped off. The grasshopper sprang to life and started hopping across the floor. John stood on the arm of the chair and shrieked.

"Get it!" Dumb-arse came out of hiding to see what the commotion was about. He crouched down low and his tail started wagging.

"No!" Sherlock shouted diving after the cat as it dove after the insect. "Stupid cat! Let go! John!" The cat ran off carrying the grasshopper by one of its meaty legs. It brought it's kill to the corner of the kitchen and started ripping it apart limb from limb. "John! It was a dihybrid! It displayed incomplete dominance for several observable traits, why would you do that?"

"You were going to fling it at me!" John shouted.

"I was not!"

"You did last time!"

"Well I wasn't going to do it _this_ time." Sherlock sneered. "Besides, last time was a harmless garden spider." Sherlock huffed.

"They're venomous!"

"They cause mild discomfort." Sherlock scoffed.

"Yeah, how about that time in the junk-yard with that gigantic black dog? I swear that thing had red eyes."

"Also harmless." Sherlock said snobbishly.

"Yeah, only when we were finally behind the electric fence! That _you_ neglected to tell me was active." John let out a sigh. "At least with Mycroft I don't have to worry about getting electrocuted or poisoned."

"Where's the fun in that?" Sherlock asked doing a quick scan of the room. "Think we could have a quickie before the car arrives?"

"No." John groaned. "I told you, I just… got swept up in the excitement. We can't keep doing… _this._ " John said pointing back and forth between him and Sherlock.

"But I liked it, it's loads better than being on bottom."

"Sherlock, it doesn't matter if you _liked_ it or not. I wouldn't be a responsible adult if I kept leading you on like this."

"Leading on Mycroft is ok then?" John let out a load groan. "I was just making sure! I don't mind being 'the other guy'." Sherlock said with a chuckle. "Is it ironic? Seriously. I'm unsure if it is or isn't."

"Is what ironic?"

"That you initially were screwing around with Mycroft behind my back and now you're screwing around with me behind his?"

"We're not screwing around." John said holding his head in his hands.

"Right… we're fucking around?" Sherlock smiled as John started rocking back and forth holding his head.

"Why do you have to do this to me?" John asked letting go of his head.

"Come on, just a quick shag, then I'll be off for the summer. Won't have to deal with me for months."

"I'm not shagging you before my therapy session."

"Of course not." Sherlock smirked. "I'd be shagging you."

"Can't we watch a DVD or summat?" John whined.

"You know you want to." Sherlock teased.

"Yes but it's cheating and slagish. It isn't fair to Mycroft. He could get really hurt." John looked at Sherlock solemnly. "I don't want to be a promiscuous little slut. I want a real relationship."

"What's wrong with just having sex?" Sherlock asked with a shrug.

"Everything." John said running his hands through his hair. "I want companionship. I'm not just looking for a quick hook-up." John waved his hand dismissively. "All you think about is sex."

"That is such a stereotype, I don't _only_ think of sex. I think of sex on average, twenty times a day, which is statistically within the norm." Sherlock bit his bottom lip. "Come on, it will be fun, you like fun."

"I can't."

"Sure you can."

"I don't want to."

"You really do." Sherlock said with a pout.

"I have morals Sherlock." Sherlock started to whine. "You're an absolute child! You cannot even begin to comprehend what it means to have a real relationship. You think nothing of the consequences of your actions. You just want to get off!"

"Exactly! So can we? I'm not above begging." Sherlock got down on to his knees and pouted his lower lip. He gave John his best sorrowful look.

"That isn't even remotely attractive." John giggled pushing Sherlock's face away. Sherlock let out a low throaty laugh. "You're such a pervy boy." Sherlock hummed a purr. "Come on, you haven't even said good-bye to Mrs. Hudson. She's going to be dreadfully lonely without you."

"There's plenty of time for mournful good-byes later. We have business to attend to."

Sherlock wrestled John out of his chair and on to the floor, and tried pinning him to the floor but John reversed Sherlock's full mount and placed him in an arm-bar.

"Ow fuck John! This is Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu for God's sake! We're supposed to be in a sexually compromising position!" John lifted his hips and put more strain on Sherlock's arm. "This isn't pleasant!"

"Tap then!"

"Never!" Sherlock winced and hissed as John lifted his hips more. "John it hurts!"

"Do you want me to dislocate your shoulder?" Sherlock shook his head back and forth violently. "Then tap!"

"Child abuse!"

"Just tap out and this will be all over!" John clenched his teeth and felt his calves cramping. Sherlock made an orgasmic sound and John let go of Sherlock's arm in confusion. Sherlock elbowed him hard in the groin. John rolled over clutching onto himself. He groaned in pain. "Uh you little fuck." Sherlock lay down on John's back, rolling his hips into John's arse.

"I win."

"Would you quit dry humping me? The door's wide open."

"What like this?" Sherlock pressed up on his hands and ground into John's arse.

A small moan escaped John's mouth. Sherlock brought himself down on to his elbows and whispered into John's ear. "You know you like it." He blew into John's ear. John jerked his elbow back and rolled Sherlock off of him.

"Fine, but if you mention a word of this to Mycroft I'll kill you." John sprang to his feet and ran full speed for Sherlock's room. Sherlock chased him laughing it up and slammed the door shut behind them.

John pulled his shirt over his head and Sherlock stopped in place. "Damn."

"What?" John asked looking himself over. "Another skin tag?" John said lifting his arm and checking.

"No… you're just…" Sherlock poked his abs. "Defined."

"I work out."

"Yeah you do."

"Since when do you use flattery?" John chuckled.

"It's merely an observation." Sherlock said with a slight frown.

"Why don't you take yours off?" John asked grabbing the bottom of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock shied away. "You take to walking round the flat buck-arse naked but when I take my shirt off you get all shy?" Sherlock stepped back and rubbed his arm. "You're not using again are you?" Sherlock shook his head. "Then what is it?" Sherlock shrugged. "You're like… attracted to me or summat?" Sherlock looked down at the floor and shuffled his foot. "You said I was a homely little smurf!" John rolled his eyes and let out a laugh. "You think I'm sexy, don't you?"

"No." Sherlock scowled. "Just don't want to take my shirt off is all… it's cold."

"It's blazing in here!" John grabbed Sherlock shirt once more. "We'd better get on with this before I change my mind." He helped Sherlock pull his shirt over his head. He snorted at the sight of the tiny amount of chest hair in the middle of Sherlock's chest. "Ginger?"

"Shut up." Sherlock said turning away. John put a hand on his shoulder. "I told you I wanted to keep my shirt on."

"It isn't that bad. It's barely visible. Turn round." Sherlock slumped his shoulders and turned around. "You're becoming a little man." John said poking Sherlock's chest. Sherlock groaned.

"I haven't shaved." Sherlock grimaced. "Not since you know who left."

"Voldemort?"

"I'm certain that wouldn't have been funny even if I knew who that was." Sherlock let out a sigh. "You're just going to laugh at me."

"Probably." John chuckled and Sherlock punched him in the shoulder. "Oi. I'm just being honest!" Sherlock pulled down his trousers and underwear in a swift movement. John couldn't help but laugh at the sight. "You poor thing. Your hair finally comes in and you've got a fire-crotch." John giggled. "Hold up. Are you a ginger?"

"Auburn." Sherlock blushed.

"You little… you colour your hair!" Sherlock pulled up his trousers and went to pick up his shirt. John grabbed his wrist. "Oh come on, I don't mean nothing by it. It's just…" John shrugged. "Is it catching?"

"Is what catching?" Sherlock asked snappishly.

"Your ginger-vitis." John chuckled. Sherlock glared; his lip twitched slightly.

"Stop trying to make me smile when I'm trying not to." Sherlock said holding back a grin, John laughed. "All right, we're done here. You've utterly repelled me. I hope you're pleased."

"Very." John said with a stretch. Sherlock pulled his shirt back on and fastened his trousers. John turned about on his heels and bent over the bed.

"W-What are you doing?"

"Just relaxing." John said propping himself up on his elbows. He shifted his hips slightly.

"You're just… going to… lay there… with your arse out like that… for the entire world to see?" John undid his button and zip and pulled his jeans down until they were around his ankles. He went back to looking off across the room, humming to himself, with his arse sticking out in the air, waiting. He couldn't be any more suggestive if he tried. "Um… I'd better… go pack…" Sherlock stammered.

"All right. I'll be here… if you need me." John smirked.

_God I'm terrible._

"Um… yeah…" Sherlock said smacking his lips. He paused at the door, scratched the back of his head and found himself staring at John's bottom. "So you're expecting me to…"

"Or whoever comes along." John shrugged. Sherlock approached the bed and placed a hand on John's hip. He brushed his long fingers down the curve of John's lower back.

"So… I'm just supposed to take you?"

"Yep." John said with a pop. "Unless you don't want to."

"Oh, I want to… it's just…"

"What?" John asked looking back at him.

"Thought we'd… you know… kiss?" Sherlock asked sheepishly. John rolled over and sighed. He propped himself up on his elbows.

"We can do this, I just don't want you kissing me. You said you wanted a quickie."

Sherlock shrugged and rubbed his arm. "I do but…" Sherlock shook his head. "I don't want it like this John." John looked down at himself. "You're being a jerk."

"A jerk?"

"If I can't kiss you I don't want to."

"Yeah but… kissing doesn't turn you on, you said so yourself."

"It does for you." Sherlock said looking at the floor.

"So?" Sherlock started to look like he was in pain. "God I knew this was a terrible idea." John pulled up his underpants. "Listen, Sherlock, it isn't fooling around if you keep getting your feelings hurt." Sherlock's eyes started watering. "I'm not being a jerk! I'm being honest." Sherlock wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Please don't cry." John whined. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and threw his body weight against him. He started to sob.

"I already miss you." He cried.

"You haven't even left!" John said with a grunt as Sherlock shifted his weight. "And you were just saying I was being a jerk."

"You are!" Sherlock cried harder.

"Oh Sherlock." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close. "My jeans are around my ankles and you're sobbing uncontrollably into my shoulder. What would Mrs. Hudson say if she walked in to find us like this?" Sherlock sniffled and looked at John.

"I love you."

"I know." John said stroking his hair.

_I'm just not ready to love you back._


	40. Chapter 40

"Well it is sodomy, you know, in a technical sense." John said looking away from Mycroft. He tried to keep his focus on Dr. Thompson as they spoke.

"Yes but the connotation of the word-" Mycroft started.

"Mr. Holmes you must allow John to finish." Dr. Thompson said holding a hand up. John was tempted to look at Mycroft, wanting to see his reaction to being silenced. "John you stated that you found homosexuality to be immoral."

"Unnatural. That's all I said." John said glancing at Mycroft briefly.

"Unnatural?" Mycroft asked with a high pitched inflexion. "How can you say such a thing?"

"The bible-" John started.

"The bible!" Mycroft shouted. "I'll have you know-"

"Mr. Holmes." Dr. Thompson interrupted.

"Oh my apologies. I do find it a bit of a shock that my boyfriend's world views are so archaic." Mycroft breathed heavily through his nose. "Anything other than missionary position is considered sodomy, did you know that? And what does your bible say about-"

"My bible! I didn't write it!"

"You might as well have. I've read your blog. Rubbish."

"Don't you dare-" John went to stand. Dr. Thompson pleaded for him to take a seat.

"You can't get past your ridiculous religion that condemns you for feeling the slightest bit of attraction to a man. You associate homosexuality with the sexual acts and never the lifestyle or the complex gender roles. You're just a…"

"A what Mycroft? A whore? A slag? Come on, out with it."

Mycroft put his head in his hands. "That was not what I was going to say at all."

"What am I then?"

"A homophobe!" Mycroft shouted.

"How the hell am I a homophobe?" John shouted. Dr. Thompson was at a loss of words for how the argument escalated. Her emotionally focused therapy was really becoming focused on emotions, all negative.

"Gentleman. Please. This isn't a boxing match." She said closing her eyes, willing them to stop.

"Bloody well ought to be." John said crossing his arms and sinking into his chair.

"I would just like for John to know how much it upsets me that he would say such a thing about the way we… make… love…" Mycroft said awkwardly.

"Oh so we're speaking _through_ the therapist now? Oh well Dr. Thompson if you wouldn't mind telling Mycroft here that this whole couple's therapy thing is bullocks and that if we would have stayed at home, like I had asked, we wouldn't be duelling it out."

"John, don't be such a child." Mycroft hissed

"Thanks Greg." John sneered. Mycroft growled in response.

"Enough." Dr. Thompson said firmly. "I can see this method isn't working for you two. I'm going to have to use a more… novel approach. Now you two sit there, no talking, no looking at one another. I have just the thing." She stood up and went to the cabinet. John looked at Mycroft who was glaring.

"She said no looking." John whispered.

"She said no talking either." Mycroft snapped back.

"Boys." Dr. Thompson said. "Please." She walked over and gave John a chequerboard. "On the floor." John slid down on to the floor and sat with his legs crossed, Dr. Thompson sat down as well, resting uncomfortably on her hip with her legs behind her; she brushed out her skirt and started taking out chess pieces from a plastic bag. "Mr. Holmes." Mycroft let out a sigh and slid out of his chair on to the floor.

"Chess." John said plainly.

_I'm rubbish at chess._

"You two are going to play me at a game of chess. First Mr. Holmes gives the orders and John moves the pieces, then we reverse the roles."

"I see." Mycroft said with a hum. "And this will enlighten us on the roles we play in our relationship?"

"No. This will keep you two from bickering back and forth for the rest of the hour." She grinned. "Anything you learn about how you fit into your relationship is purely coincidence." Mycroft helped her set up the board while John sat back and watched.

_He's going to make me feel like a bloody idiot. I can hardly play chess at all; I have no chance at winning._

"White's move." Dr. Thompson moved her pawn out first.

"E-file pawn to E5." Mycroft said to John. John looked at the board. There were no numbers or letters along the side. He didn't know any chess language other than the pieces' names. "That one there." Mycroft said pointing to the piece.

"Ah, ah." Dr. Thompson scolded. "New rule, hands to yourself, use your words."

Mycroft shut his eyes and took in a deep breath. John slunk down feeling like a complete moron. Mycroft steepled his fingers and brought them to his lip. "Fifth pawn from the left, move it two spaces." John grabbed the pawn and moved it. Mycroft kept his eyes closed as Dr. Thompson moved her knight. "Queen-side knight to…" Mycroft grunted. "Move it above the bishop." John grabbed the knight and moved it.

Dr. Thompson moved her bishop. "John the bottom row left to right is letters A through H, the numbers run down to up one through eight. This whole operation will run smoother if we follow the coordinate system. Now move the queen side knight to E5." John looked at the board a moment and nodded; he grabbed the knight and moved it between the white pawn and bishop. The therapist took the pawn with her knight.

John looked at Mycroft who kept his eyes closed, his breathing was deep and calm. "Queen to G5." Dr. Thompson took another pawn with her knight. "Queen takes the G2 pawn." The doctor moved her rook in to protect the king. "Queen takes the D4 pawn." John moved the queen and took away another pawn. "Check." Dr. Thompson brought her bishop back to defend the king. "Knight to F3." Mycroft opened his eyes. "Checkmate." He smirked.

"That was impressive." Dr. Thompson looked at the board. "You literally beat me with your eyes closed and with no hands as well. Bravo." She scratched her eyebrow. "John?"

"I don't want to play." John said looking at the board. Mycroft started resetting the board and John grimaced.

"Give it a try." Dr. Thompson "You can go first" She turned the board around. John looked at the squares and mentally recited his alphabet.

"G2 pawn to G4." John said. Mycroft gave him a look. "No?"

"Mr. Holmes, it is John's move." Mycroft rolled his eyes and moved the pawn. Dr. Thompson moved her pawn.

"F2 pawn to F3?" John asked Mycroft. Mycroft shook his head.

"Mr. Holmes." The doctor scolded.

"Must I make the move?" Mycroft asked with a slight whine.

"Go on." Mycroft sighed and moved the pawn. Dr. Thompson moved her queen and looked at John and Mycroft. "Checkmate." John's stomach sunk and he shut his eyes.

"I told you I didn't want to play. Now I look like a bloody fool."

"It is named the Fool's Mate." Mycroft said placing a hand on John's shoulder.

"That's not helping." John frowned. "Well now I know where I fit into this relationship, you're the bloody queen making all the power plays while your knight in shining armour waits silently off to the side." Mycroft leaned back and rested his head against the seat of his chair. "I'm just a foolish pawn." John said pecking at his shoe.

"It is only a game." Mycroft sighed. "It doesn't mean you're a fool."

"I lost in two moves." John pouted.

"Maybe if you thought out your moves ahead of time."

"I only just started! I didn't know in two moves I'd get beat. I thought I'd have more time to build my strategy and think things through."

"Perhaps you shouldn't rush into it. Think things through before you act?"

John pointed to Dr. Thompson. "She's the one we pay to say things like that."

"I'm merely here to mediate today." She said putting up her hands.

"You have been acting on impulse of late." Mycroft said sitting up.

"Sometimes it's nice doing things spontaneously. I wish you'd do it more often. You know… leave the work in the office and do something fun for once."

"What are we supposed to do for 'fun'?" Mycroft asked unsure of what John was proposing.

"John, what did you do before, with your friends in Aldershot?" Dr. Thompson prompted.

"Nothing Mycroft would be interested in." John shrugged. "Camping, swimming, we'd muck about drinking beer, talk about girls."

"Mr. Holmes. What did you do for fun?" Dr. Thompson grabbed her notebook off her chair and started writing. Mycroft looked to John.

"Read a book." Mycroft sighed.

"With your friends?"

Mycroft looked at the floor. "Didn't have any."

"What would you say was your closet thing to a friend?" Dr. Thompson wrote in her notebook. John looked at Mycroft with pity. He knew exactly who Mycroft's only friend was growing up and John suddenly felt a pang of guilt.

"My brother." Mycroft said quietly.

"What did you two do growing up?" The doctor looked up from her notebook.

"Fought. Constantly." Mycroft sighed. "I believe we had our first argument when he was fifteen months old." John held back a laugh, Mycroft smiled. "His second word was 'no' and he used it liberally."

"What was his first word?" Dr. Thompson asked. "Just curious."

"Well my mother would tell you it was 'ma' but I distinctly remember the boy babbling 'my' all over the house." Mycroft sat up straighter. "He never shut up, from nine months on."

"At what age did you and Sherlock get along the best?"

"Six months." John laughed and Mycroft elaborated. "He had just learned to sit up on his own, he couldn't crawl, he'd sit in the middle of the room perfectly content. He'd break out into laughter, a real deep belly laugh, out of no-where, as if he'd just come up with the most hilarious joke, out of the blue." John smiled at the thought.

"He was an odd baby. I kept close tabs on his development early on. Mummy never kept record of my developmental milestones and it had upset me enough that I was determined to catalogue Sherlock's firsts. I was more worried than my own mother when Sherlock started showing delays. She was more concerned with me reading parenting books, my father threw the books away and gave me my first cricket bat." Mycroft let out a sigh. "He didn't want me to take over any aspect of Sherlock's upbringing. I was to play the brother role."

"Did you want to take on another role?" Dr. Thompson asked softly.

"At first… perhaps. As time wore on it became impossible to form a connection with him. I felt I missed my window of opportunity early on." Mycroft slumped back against the chair. "He'd scream himself to sleep. My mother called it 'self soothing', I said it was a torture. She'd leave him in the middle of the floor in the study and read on the sofa while I was at school. At least if she had turned on the telly he would have had some sort of… I don't know! A bit of social contact." Mycroft shook his head. "I'm just as much at fault for Sherlock, I should have kept my door wide open. I just shut myself away and barred myself off from the rest of the world, I had my own issues to deal with; I didn't have the time for a baby brother. I still don't." Mycroft let his head fall back on to the seat cushion. "It's my fault he's psychotic isn't it? He's a socio-path and I raised him to be one."

"Now this is purely opinion on my part, but it is the parents' job to raise their child, and it shouldn't be the sole responsibility of a seven-year-old boy to see to it that they do it properly." Dr. Thompson said reassuringly. "You responded to the situation the best way you knew how. You cannot change what has happened in the past, but you can work on the relationship you have with your brother now."

"There's too much history between us. Old scores, resentments."

"I'm afraid our time is almost up. I'm going to propose a mission for you two." John looked at the doctor with concern. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to socialize." Mycroft and John looked at one another in confusion. "Make friends, get together with old friends. Go out with other people, together as a couple."

For some reason John felt like this mission wasn't going to be pleasant.

_Mycroft won't like my friends. Well… I say 'friends'._

They walked out of the office and down the corridor in silence. Mycroft was dressed to the nines as usual, minus the suit jacket. John felt odd walking next to him wearing cargo shorts and an old t-shirt.

"How are you not dying in that?" John broke the silence. Mycroft looked down at his outfit. "You're not even working today."

"What do you propose I wear instead?"

"Nothing." Mycroft gave him a look. "No I didn't mean…" John laughed. "Not 'nothing' but you know… maybe something a bit more casual?" John shrugged. "You don't have to." Mycroft looked at John with questioning eyes.

"I don't believe I own anything… less casual."

"Really?" John asked with a laugh.

"I might own a pair of jeans now that I think of it." Mycroft said thinking hard and biting his bottom lip.

"Oh I don't believe it. You own a pair of denim jeans?"

"Buried away in the deep recesses of my closet, perhaps I might still have a pair."

"Do you have any friends in mind for socializing with?" John asked shoving his hands in his pockets.

"The only people I socialize with are diplomats and you. Who do you have in mind?"

"Mike?"

"Does he believe we're cousins?" John shook his head. "How does he make a living?"

"Student, we were in all the same courses this year. He's the first person I told when I thought I was gay."

"Russel Square Gardens is within walking distance, you could invite him out. Unless you are too embarrassed to be seen with me." Mycroft said with a snide tone.

"Why would I be embarrassed?"

"We are quite the juxtaposition." Mycroft let out a sigh. "Perhaps it would be best to keep our relationship private."

"Afraid you might accidentally have fun? Out in public?" John teased.

"I am not _that_ uptight."

"I beg to differ." John smirked. "Besides you forced me to come out here to have couples therapy, best not go against doctor's orders, let's socialize. We're always alone together."

"I suggested the park." Mycroft said defensively.

"What if we went down to the pub?"

"I don't frequent pubs."

"You also don't socialize."

"I do so." Mycroft pulled out his packet of cigarettes and slid one out.

"Not for leisure. You're all business. Lighten up, have a pint. It will be _fun_."

"I abhor anything remotely fun. I am ever so dull. I may drop dead if I am even the slightest bit amused." Mycroft joked as he lit up his cigarette. "I have strong aversion to entertainment, I break out in hives and spots at the mere thought of it." Mycroft shivered. "Fun. What is this _fun?_ "

"All right wise guy. I get it." John chuckled. Mycroft puffed away at his cigarette.

"You know, I am capable of breaking out of my shell."

"You just don't want to."

"Exactly." Mycroft flicked the ashes off the end of his cigarette. "Why can't we stay in and have 'fun'? And why isn't a stroll in the park satisfactory? Why do we have to go to a dark and dingy _pub_?" The word pub sounded unnatural on Mycroft's lips, it seemed to leave a foul taste in his mouth.

"The park is boring. It's all paved walk-ways and benches. Man-made nature. It doesn't feel right."

"You'd rather have a walk in the woods? With all the ticks and flies? All the wild-animals and murderers digging shallow graves for their victims?"

"No I would rather take you somewhere more public where I can show you off and force you into being social."

"Show me off? Are you going to grease me up and present me at the county show?"

"If you'd like." John held back a smile.

"I'm not some prized pig."

"I'll say." John reached up and twirled Mycroft's hair in his finger. He let it go to reveal a tiny curl. "Terrific. Radiant. Humble." John chuckled. "You're _some pig._ "

"And you know what Charlotte would have written in her web for you?" Mycroft said pressing his forehead to John's.

"Hm?"

"Dork." John chuckled lightly as their lips met for a gentle kiss. John closed his eyes and melted into the warm embrace.

"I love you." John said before he could catch himself. His heart made a loud thud in his chest and he felt a slight panic come on.

_It shouldn't feel like this to say those three words. Should it?_


	41. Chapter 41

John woke up in a mood. He was too tired to get up but not tired enough to go back to sleep. His mind kept nagging him with the question 'what am I doing here?' followed by 'what am I doing with my life?'

John rolled over on to his back and sprawled out as much as he could on the oversized bed. The bed was too massive for one person, he felt lost at sea in the down comforter. He had felt lonely in his own bed at Baker Street and his mattress was only a double.

_This isn't a king size, it has to be like an emperor size._

He wondered how Mycroft could stand sleeping alone with a bed that big. They had woken up on polar opposite ends of the bed and had a good yard between them of no-man's land. John had curled up and took up as little space as possible while Mycroft slept spread eagle, trying to occupy as much of the bed as possible.

John had assumed there would be more cuddling or some sort of body contact when he asked to sleep over. Baker Street felt so empty and slightly eerie. John was becoming afraid to sleep there. His night terrors were back full force, sometimes he'd wake up three times a night. He knew Mrs. Hudson would love some uninterrupted sleep for once, so he asked Mycroft if he could stay over, just for the night.

A week later and he was still sleeping in Mycroft's bed and he was left wondering how the hell he got to this point.

_When did it stop being pretend? Or is it still pretend? He basically said 'Hey John! Wanna be a secret agent?' 'No way!' 'I'll see to it they chop off your dick in prison' 'All right I'm on board!' 'Let's make-out!' 'All right! Next thing, you can ram it up my arse, I won't mind.' Fuck I've got Stockholmes syndrome. Both brothers have me by the balls. They've black-mailed me into relationships. I should fucking hate their guts!_

John rolled over on to his stomach and debated his next move.

_Go home and rot or stay here and rot. Choices, choices._

Mycroft would be back late, he said so himself. John assumed that meant he'd come back at seven in the morning the next day after sleeping in the office. John knew he'd gladly sleep on the sofa after spending a week with John's night terrors.

_Maybe if he was closer to me while I slept I wouldn't freak out as bad._

John wondered how weird it would be to ask Greg to share a bed.

_I know we're not boyfriends and you're straight and all, but do you think you could hold me while I slept? Yeah, that's not creepy at all!_

John was feeling the full array of side effects from sleep deprivation. He'd nod off unexpectedly, he had a constant headache, his memory was shitty at best, and he was awful moody. Being back on bottom wasn't helping his mood one bit.

It wasn't that being shagged wasn't pleasurable, it just was getting old fast. He didn't want to put up a fight and be caught in a passionate bed tango, he just wanted to roll over, get fucked, and be done with it. Perhaps he was just depressed.

Sherlock wasn't responding to his texts in a timely manner and he often only got one word responses.

**It's too quiet on Baker Street**

**OK –SH**

A day later John tried to start up another conversation:

**What are you up to? Staying out of trouble I hope.**

**Science –SH**

**Why? It's summer, shouldn't you be playing outside?**

**Reasons –SH**

John was starting to wonder if Sherlock knew that text messages weren't like telegrams, the phone companies don't charge by the word. John tried calling several times, Sherlock never bothered picking up. Maybe speaking involved too much effort on his part.

John was concerned that Sherlock was receiving little to no social contact. He was likely cooped up in his room performing science experiments with little ventilation and no safety gear. John was worried.

John shifted on the bed and brought himself up on to his elbows.

_What if he's avoiding me? There's one way to test this hypothesis._

John rolled out of bed and made way for the front room. He walked through the living area to the kitchen where he spotted the phone.

_If the little bastard answers this time, I'm going to let him have it._

John grabbed the land-line in one hand and pulled up Sherlock's contact information on his mobile. He dialled Sherlock's number and put the receiver up to his ear. The dialling tone chimed loudly in his ear.

" _Hello?"_

"You little son of a bitch! And quite literally too might I add. I knew you'd answer! You've been fucking avoiding me!" John shouted. Sherlock chuckled on the other end of the line. "How've you been you little cunt? I can't believe you'd go this long without talking to me."

" _From your extensive use of swear words I can tell you've been pining for me."_

"I ain't pining!" John smiled; it felt amazing to hear his voice again. "Bastard. What are you up to? Been driving your gran up a wall?"

" _No she's absolutely adores me; you'd swear we were best of friends. She won't have her mid-day tea with anyone else. I've learned a few interesting bits of information about Mycroft that I know you're dying to hear."_

"Like?" John asked intrigued.

" _Now, now. There will be plenty of time for that later. I'll be making my return to Baker Street tonight, I will fill you in on all the details then."_

"Tonight?" John's heart jumped.

" _Yes, of course. I can't stay here a moment longer. I'll make my daring escape tonight; I should be there before midnight. Don't tell Mycroft."_

_"_ Why not?" John asked leaning against the counter-top.

" _When I say I'm making a daring escape I mean it. I'm going AWOL."_

"Yeah but Mycroft's not going to mind is he?"

" _He's the one who sent me away!"_

"I thought you wanted to spend the summer at your mother's."

_"You also thought that he doesn't have your phone tapped."_

"What?" John's heart dropped.

" _He gave it to you right? I-phone 5? New model. You likely didn't purchase it with your trust-fund money, you won't even buy name brand cereal let alone a pricey mobile."_ There was a small pause. " _Are you on his land-line?"_

"Yes."

_"Midnight. Baker Street. Be there."_ The phone clicked and John was left with silence.

John stood there, confused, hurt, and hungry. He put the phone back on the charger and turned to search the fridge.

_Big brother is playing 'big brother' again. Why does he have to spy on me?_

John titled his head as he searched the fridge.

_Where's the lobster and caviare? Duck… lamb liver… yuck… Cake. Pizza. No milk?_

John stepped back and closed the fridge and started searching the cabinets.

_No pastries… no bread at all. What the hell Mycroft? He gives me hell for sardines and ramen and he's got cake and lamb liver. No cereal? Well, without milk it'd be nasty anyhow. God, it would kill him to eat anything out of a tin wouldn't it? Oh hello there._

John pulled out a jar of nutella.

_I will fucking obliterate you._

John started to drool. It had been ages since he'd had nutella. His mum stopped purchasing it years ago because Harry and he would level a jar in one afternoon. John held on to the happy memory tightly. He opened the jar and found that it was unopened. He peeled back the top and was tempted to eat with his fingers. He searched the drawers for a spoon.

He settled for a fork and started digging into the spread. He had a slight food-gasm and let his head fall back.

_It's been far too long my love._

John looked down at the jar.

_I'm an adult, I've got money, why don't I purchase stock in this shit?_

He was reminded of his resolution to be fit.

_No, I must maintain my form. I've got abs now. Well I suppose I've always had abs under all those layers of fat. Not that I was ever chubby._

John philosophized about his physique as he shoved another large fork-full of nutella into his mouth.

_What's the serving size on this? Fifteen grams? Should report these numbers by the jar. How many servings have I just taken in? What's that three-hundred kilo-joules a pop? Shit… I'm going to have to climb Mount Everest four times to burn this off. I wonder if Mycroft has his own phone under surveillance. Wonder if he has access to CCTV cameras… of course he does, he's the British Government for Christ's sake._

John shuddered at the thought of being watched.

_What if he's got cameras in my flat?_

John felt a cold panic. He placed the jar down. He was officially creeped out. He was panicked all of a sudden. His breathing started to quicken as his heart started pounding.

_I need to get out of here. Clear my head._

John ran his hands through his hair.

_How much does he know? Is that why he sent Sherlock away? What have I said over the past seven months that was incriminating? What have I done? What am I going to do?_

John felt a panic attack coming on, he tried to calm himself down but he felt his chest and throat tightening. He sat down on the floor, held his head in his hands, and started rocking back and forth.

_He knows, he knows everything. About Sherlock and me. About everything._

John took in a shuddered wheezy breath.

_Why hasn't he killed me yet? How am I not dead?_

John put his hands together in prayer.

_Maybe he doesn't know yet. Oh God, what have I done?_

John resolved to leave the penthouse at once. He left the jar of nutella and his extra clothes so he wouldn't raise any suspicions.

_I'll just say I missed my own bed or summat. Yeah… he'd buy that. I'll just lie-low for a while, figure things out. Have a talk with Sherlock. Leave the country, grow a moustache, bee farm? No, no. That's Sherlock's dream. What am I supposed to do in my retired years? Blog? I'm not entirely against the idea of a moustache._

John started feeling rather silly thinking of facial hair but it helped ease his worries about his every move being monitored.

_I'm just being paranoid. I'll just go for a little walk, clear my head, get some fresh air._

John grabbed the extra set of keys, locked the front door, and pressed the lift button. The lift pinged and the doors slid open. There was a kid, about ten years of age waiting patiently on the lift. John hesitated and took a large step into the lift. The kid gave him a toothless grin and John gave him a half-hearted grin.

_What's he doing on the top floor?_

The doors slid closed and John realized all too late what the kid was doing on the elevator. The boy slid his hands down every button, lighting them all up. John groaned. The doors slid open and the kid popped out on to the nineteenth floor.

"I know where you live you little bastard!"

"Poof!" He shouted back as the doors shut. John whined and looked at all the lit buttons.

_Why does Mycroft have to live on the twentieth floor?_

John stopped off at every floor on his way down. He punched the 'close door' button in anger every time the doors slid open. He was about to press it once more on the twelfth floor when a very posh lady and her aristocratic pocket pomeranian joined him on the lift. She gave him a death glare as she caught sight of the buttons.

John groaned on the inside. Another couple joined them on the tenth floor along with their young child. John felt terribly awkward and wished his torture would end. He heard the posh lady mumble something.

After five more excruciating minutes, the lift reached the lobby and John ran out first. The doorman wasn't quick enough to hold the door for John as he burst out and darted on to the street. His face was red with embarrassment. He looked up at a building across the street and saw a CCTV camera.

John sprinted down the street, not watching where he was going, and not caring either. He wanted to be far away from any cameras or people. He felt like everyone was watching him.

_I'm losing it! I've finally lost it! I've gone mad!_

John's paranoia worsened when he thought of his phone's GPS.

_He knows where I am! Every moment of every day!_

John pulled his mobile out of his pocket as he ran. He made a split second decision and chucked the phone as far as he could. His mind was clouded with fear and anger.

_How could I be so stupid?_

John felt tears start to well up in his eyes.

_He's been in my flat while I'm away. He's likely bugged the whole place. I'm such an idiot. Why did I have to fuck his brother? Why couldn't I just have left well alone? It's all my fault!_

John kept running until his legs couldn't take it any longer. He was in a great deal of pain, emotionally. He turned into an alleyway and the moment he stopped moving he started to vomit. He heaved deep and voided the contents of his stomach on to pavement.

John fell forward and braced himself against the wall feeling light-headed.

_He'll know I threw the phone away on purpose. Why did I ever trust him? Why do I feel so hurt?_

John stuffed his hands in his pockets, left the alleyway and walked to Baker Street. His sweatpants slid on his hips and he constantly had to pull them up. His new trainers weren't broken in yet and were killing his feet. He felt his whole body ache but he walked the three and a half miles to Baker Street, in a gloomy daze.

He near passed out when he reached the front door. He knocked and waited, swaying back and forth from exhaustion. Mrs. Hudson turned the lock and took one look at John and started cooing over him.

Mrs. Turner appeared out of nowhere and he found himself being dragged into Mrs. Hudson flat. A cuppa was shoved into his hands and a scratchy wool blanket was placed on his shoulders.

"Poor dear." One of Mrs. Hudson's friends cooed.

_Oh dear God, it's Tuesday._

Mrs. Hudson's Friday afternoon tea, which had moved to Tuesday mornings, was in session. The attendance numbers had dwindled down since Sherlock left. Mrs. Hudson liked to believe it was a coincidence. John believed half the ladies there only showed up to listen to Sherlock and his endless amounts of gossip.

Though Sherlock hated trivial things about celebrities like who was shagging who and who was the prime minister, he loved spreading gossip about people they knew to people who appreciated his gift of gab. He didn't spread rumours, every accusation he made was true. He'd stick his head out the window for five minutes and would be able to tell the troupe exactly what went down on Baker Street that week.

The Baker Street Biddies loved Sherlock dearly. John could tell the remaining two members were looking forward to have a young male in their midst again, with the hope he'd be somewhat like Sherlock.

"You poor thing, you look like you haven't had a wink of sleep in days." Mrs. Turner placed a hand on John's shoulder. She was a touchy type. She couldn't talk to someone without rubbing their elbow or holding their hand.

"I thought you'd moved in with the lad, been gone so long." Mrs. Hudson placed a hand on John's other shoulder. "He's been with the boy, six months is it?" John shrugged. "Oh dear, did somethin' happen?" Mrs. Hudson pulled her hand away. "Oh I've gone and said too much again, haven't I? I'm so sorry John."

John looked at Mrs. Hudson who had a 'please tell all' face. All of the ladies looked desperate for a bit of gossip. They were itching for something to get them through the week. They were tittle-tattle addicts.

"It's nothing… I just… I had to get out of there. Found out he's been looking through my texts, screening my calls, that kind of stuff." Mrs. Turner gasped and John jumped slightly.

"One of me ex-husbands. He was doin', the very same thing. Save we didn't have mobiles mind you. He'd be listen' in on the other line! And you know what?"

"No." Mrs. Hudson's friend said. She was sitting on the edge of her seat.

"Turns out, he's the one who's cheatin! Can you believe it?" John looked at Mrs. Turner worriedly. "Oh, well, that was Ian, that was Ian all over."

"A bit obsessive if you ask me." Mrs. Hudson said handing John a biscuit.

"Possessive." Her friend chimed in.

"Have you brought it up with him?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Martha he musn't! He needs to leave now, while he still can." Mrs. Turner said sinking her fingers into John's shoulder.

"Now there's no need to be rash." Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes.

"Nothing good ever comes from stalker types and you know it." Mrs. Turner said crossing her arms. John felt relieved when she removed her death grip.

"John you poor thing. You look exhausted. You get on upstairs, you don't need to be caught in the cross fire." Mrs. Hudson said taking away John's cup. John thanked her silently.

_God bless you Mrs. Hudson._

He made his hasty retreat and could hear the ladies start bickering back and forth behind the closed door. He walked slowly up the stairs, sore as hell, his legs quaked under his weight. When he made it to the second storey and through his bedroom door, he collapsed on to his bed.

He felt himself mummer something before he drifted off into a deep sleep.

There was a loud knock at his door. John jolted awake. He was surprised to find his hands were shoved down the front of his pants.

_Good dream?_

He pulled out his hands and there was another loud knock.

"Hold on!" He shouted.

"John!" Mycroft shouted from the other side. John groaned and looked at his alarm clock.

_Holy shit, it is half past four! The whole day is gone._

"Hold on." John whined.

"John, I must speak with you." John stood up and rolled his neck and shoulders. He went to the door and opened it. Mycroft held up John's broken phone. "What was _this_ doing in the middle of the street?"

"I went for a run, must have dropped out of my pocket." John mumbled. He yawned and tried to appear as tired as possible so maybe Mycroft would leave him alone.

"You ran off in your sleepwear, obviously in a panic, threw your phone across the road… John… What is the matter?" Mycroft asked concerned.

"Why are you watching my every move?"

"Why am I what?"

"Oh, don't pretend to be all innocent."

"John… This phone was thrown, not dropped, the cracks on the screen? You would have to be as tall as a two-storey building if it received this damage falling out of your pocket. I wasn't watching you. I couldn't get a hold of you. I panicked." Mycroft looked away. "I traced the mobile to Gresham street." John glared at Mycroft. "I was worried! You can't run off like that. Not with that lunatic out there." Mycroft reached for John's hand. "I don't want you to fall victim to Moriarty. I couldn't live with myself."

John didn't know how to feel. He wasn't sure if he was being manipulated or if Mycroft genuinely was concerned for his safety. It would explain the increased surveillance. John felt like an idiot. He fell forward into Mycroft's arms.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me."

"Do you believe you need help? Maybe some time away." John was stricken with fear at the suggestion. "Your nightly episodes have been violent, you scream yourself hoarse. You're covered in bruises. I'm worried."

"I'm fine." John said pulling away. "It's just at night. I'm fine." John repeated. His eye twitched and he started becoming nervous.

_He's not going to have me admitted, is he? He can't… right?_

"I'm not mad." John said defensively. "It's only at night." John felt his emotions welling up to the surface.

"I never said you were… I merely suggested time away from London would be… beneficial." Mycroft stood close to the door. John shook his head. "I worry, constantly. About your safety, your health."

"I'll be fine. It's just… I've been through this before, nightly episodes, I get over it."

"There must be some way to help. Medication. Something."

"I don't need to be doped up on pills, I'm fine."

"You're not fine!" Mycroft shouted. "You're obviously highly disturbed." Mycroft shook his head. "I didn't mean it that way."

"Get out." John said pointing to the door.

"John."

"Just. Leave." John said shortly.

"I only want to help."

"Go. Just go." Mycroft held out another phone. John gritted his teeth.

"You need a mobile John. Take it and I'll go." Mycroft threw the phone on to John's bed. "It isn't safe any more; you must take care of yourself." Mycroft looked flustered, he was holding back tears. John looked away. "I'm only trying to protect you; this is the only way I know how." Mycroft left shutting the door gently behind him.

John crawled back into bed. He placed the phone on his side table and let out a heavy sigh.

_Midnight can't come soon enough._


	42. Chapter 42

John woke up in a cold sweat. He tried to sit up but he felt a weight bearing down on his chest. His eyes shot open to see a dark figure on top of him.

"Don't scream." The figure said in a husky tone. John started to scream and flail. He clawed at the figure desperately. The figure clamped both of its hands over John's mouth. "For God's sake John! I said 'don't scream'."

John recognized the voice immediately. He bit down on the figure's hand. The figure let go with a yelp.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Jesus Christ Sherlock! Are you trying to scare me to death?" John shouted.

"I said I'd be back before midnight!" Sherlock said sucking on his hand. "That really hurt."

"Did you think I would enjoy waking up with you on my chest?"

"I didn't figure that you would take a bite of me." Sherlock said shaking his hand.

"What the hell are you doing here?" John asked trying to sit up. Sherlock remained firmly seated. "You're crushing my lungs." John rasped trying to push Sherlock away.

"John I'm back, how are you not excited to see me?" Sherlock asked with a slight amount of hurt in his voice.

"I can't breathe! Get off!" Sherlock sadly dismounted John's chest. "God… thank you." John said letting out a deep breath. "Now what are you _doing_ here?"

"They're sending me back to Harrow."

"Sherlock, that's great."

"No it isn't! I will be forced to board there, full time."

"It isn't far from here. We'd still see each other. I don't see what the problem is." John sighed, sat up, and flipped on his bed-side lamp. "What's the matter?"

"I want to live with you." Sherlock lay his head down on John's lap.

"It's a great school. Why would you give that up to live with me?" John asked rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Are you stupid?"

"Apparently." John stroked Sherlock's hair back away from his forehead.

"Nobody wants us together." Sherlock sighed.

"What are we? Romeo and Romeo?"

"Mycroft is jealous." Sherlock said ignoring John. "He only wants you because I wanted you first."

"That's a very teenagerish thing to say." John chuckled. "It's all about you isn't it?"

"No." Sherlock said rolling on to his back. He closed his eyes as John started scratching along his hair line. "You're just a trophy to him. For once he thinks he has me beat."

"God, don't tell me I'm in the centre of a childish feud." John said removing his hand.

"He's raised his surveillance on you to grade three active and it's taken you this long to realize he's been watching you. Granted you didn't exactly come to the conclusion entirely on your own. You are so naïve."

"Thanks Sherlock." John huffed.

"What?" Sherlock said shifting to try get John to scratch his head once more.

"You… come home… and immediately start insulting me."

"It's observation John. Don't be offended."

"Don't be offended that I'm naïve?"

"Yes." Sherlock said plainly. "You believe Mycroft and I are caught in some petty feud. That he's 'protecting' you. That sending me away to Harrow will give me a bright and shining future." Sherlock sat up, turned and pressed his back against the headboard. "Why out of all the possible suitors my brother has or could have, would he choose you? It doesn't make much sense."

"I was close to Moran… at the time."

"Lestrade was closer. He would have been a better ally, more loyal."

"I am… plenty loyal."

"Are you?" Sherlock asked raising his eyebrows.

"I wasn't expecting us… Mycroft and I to have a relationship."

"First move he made was to have you break up with your boyfriend and convince me that you and he were dating. I believe he was expecting a relationship." Sherlock stretched his back. "This isn't a Hollywood romance: it's a manipulative power play."

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous…"

"Admit it! He's a manipulative bitch!" Sherlock shouted. "You think you're the one leading him on? Stringing him along for the ride?"

"What the hell are you going on about?"

"This whole thing is staged. My brother doesn't let information leak, he wanted my mother to find out we were living together. They are playing right into Mycroft's hands, sending me back to Harrow. Don't you see?"

"No." John said.

"Isn't it just convenient that you go to Mycroft's therapist? I bet she has plenty to say about how I'll be your ruination, how you should get together with Mycroft. Couples therapy! Yes that will solve everything." Sherlock was starting to shake as he spoke. "Keeping you locked up in his office for hours, saying he needed 'help' on his case."

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense."

"It all makes perfect sense! Mycroft is only trying to drive a wedge between you and me." Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Then you go waving your arse pussy in his face and make everything much more concrete for him."

"Sherlock… I'll admit that our relationship isn't the best but you can't say the emotions aren't real."

"The emotions aren't real."

John groaned. "It's not funny."

"He doesn't even like you! I don't understand why you put up with it."

"He does so like me. You're the one that's all… jealous! You're wild accusations are completely out of line. He wouldn't put you on the case with me if he wanted to drive a wedge between us."

"Oh, he consults me on all his major cases. Don't even start."

"You are wrong about him, just like you were wrong about Jim." John slammed the final nail in the coffin. Sherlock turned bright red, either from shame or anger, John was uncertain. "You misjudged him, you let him into your home, you trusted him. Poor unassuming Jim."

"I only wanted to make you jealous." Sherlock said pitifully.

"No, you didn't. You fancied him and he broke your heart. You shrug it off like it's nothing but I remember the way you looked at me. You hated me because I could see right through his doe-eyes."

"You didn't know he was a consulting criminal."

"Neither did you." Sherlock drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. "Sherlock… I don't mean to upset you. You just… you don't always comprehend people's intentions."

"No… no I don't." Sherlock rest his forehead against his knees. "I can't understand why you are with Mycroft and not me."

"Can't we just be friends? We could even be best friends if you'd like." John asked placing his arm around Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock shook his head. "Why can't we just be platonic?"

"Cos." Sherlock sniffled.

"Cos why?" John said drawing Sherlock close.

"You've got a nice arse." Sherlock held back a laugh and John shook his head.

"You're just a pervy kid, you know that?" Sherlock nodded.

"Why would you ever want to stay with boring old Mycroft? You want spontaneity! Adventure! A good mystery." Sherlock let go of his knees and stretched out his legs. "John I have a chemical defect for you, why wouldn't you exploit it?" Sherlock motioned with his hands down his body. "Look at me, just look at me. Why are you not absolutely infatuated with me?"

"You're a scrawny little dork?" John offered.

"You see past my outward appearance. You're the only person who truly understands me… well… mostly." Sherlock furrowed his brows. "You don't call me a freak on a regular basis. Even when you insult me, it's out of love." Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders "And you're wonderful shag." John gave Sherlock an odd look.

"What the hell are you proposing?"

"Mycroft is leaving for Moscow for nine full days. Let's rekindle our…" Sherlock shifted his eyes. "Friendship." He grinned.

"How'd you know-"

"I have my ways, never you mind. Now I need only lie low tomorrow. He'll come round give you some pitiful excuse for not knowing sooner. Then he'll take the first flight out." Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "Meanwhile I'll stay here getting it off with you. Isn't it brilliant?"

"Um… yeah… save one thing."

"What's that?"

"You assume I want to sleep with you."

Sherlock reached out and grabbed John nose and gave it a pinch. "I never assume." He smiled wickedly. "Mycroft won't see it coming."

"What about when your mum calls him and says you went AWOL?" Sherlock pursed his lips and thought. "Hm? What's your plan now lover boy?" Sherlock grinned.

"As long as he takes the first flight out this morning. That would place Mycroft on the aeroplane, at thirty-thousand feet, Martini in hand, before he receives the call."

"Then what? He'll call his goon squad, have you carried away back to Oxfordshire, and there goes your plans for a romantic get-away."

"I should have faked my own death…" Sherlock said into the air. "Maybe dressed up a body from the local morgue…"

"Sherlock!" John shouted snapping Sherlock out of his day-dream.

"I have a plan, one that doesn't involve faking my own suicide. Rest assured. We will have at least four days to ourselves. I need to break into the high rise. You have a key?" Sherlock asked excitedly. John reached into his pocket and pulled out the spare key. "Brilliant!" Sherlock smiled. "That will make this loads easier."

"What insane plan have you come up with this time?"

"Oh, it's never fun if I tell you!"

"For you perhaps… but I'd like to know what I'm getting myself into." John sighed and closed his eyes. "I'm not keen on the idea of us having a lovers get away, but I don't want them hauling you away." John slid down and laid his head on his pillow. "It's been awful without you here."

"I knew it would be." Sherlock grinned. He swung his leg over John and mounted him. "We are going to have so much _fun."_

"Unh Sherlock. I'm sore all over."

"What are we going to start with? The Nepalese gold smugglers? The six year old serial killer? The swim team that drown in shallow water?" Sherlock asked excited, his hips ground into John's groin as he spoke.

"You get off on this stuff, don't you?" John chuckled. Sherlock bit his bottom lip.

"I cannot wait until morning. I missed you."

"And you just expect me to go on another whirlwind adventure with you?" John laughed. "Do you know how much you've turned my life upside down?" John sighed. "A year ago, today, I wasn't even gay."

"And that's a bad thing?" John shrugged. "Homosexuality is the best thing on this earth! It's something worth fighting for. Overcoming adversity and bigotry by breakfast. Everyone fights to break us apart, only making our bond stronger. In effect, the haters drive us closer together."

"Us?"

"The collective 'us' John." Sherlock said resting back on his heels.

"Didn't believe you thought of yourself as part of the collective."

"I don't exactly belong to any collective." Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose it's more… me against the world."

John grabbed Sherlock's hand and laced their fingers together. "I suppose I could join that fight." Sherlock leaned down and their lips met for the first time in ages.

_Us against the world._


	43. Chapter 43

John woke up in a dreary haze. He couldn't believe that he had spent twenty out of the last twenty-four hours sleeping.

_Making up for all those weeks of lost sleep._

John patted his chest and was concerned when he didn't find Sherlock's hand. He turned abruptly to see Sherlock was missing. He searched the sheets.

_What am I doing? He's not a cat._

John looked over the edge to see if he rolled out of bed.

_Maybe he's just in the loo._

There was a knock at the door. Three taps. Polite yet urgent.

_Since when does Sherlock knock?_

John got out of bed and walked cautiously towards the door. He took in a deep breath and opened it.

"Mycroft what-" Mycroft pushed his way through.

"Where is he? And don't play dumb." He threatened as he searched the room.

"I-"

"How could you? How dare you!" Mycroft shouted.

"I didn't invite him out here!" John said defensively.

"You should have called me the moment he got here." Mycroft pursed his lips. "It isn't safe here John."

"Why? Why isn't it safe? You keep saying it isn't safe!"

"Moran has escaped and four top international assassins have relocated within spitting distance of 221B. Now, is there anything you care to share with me?"

"I'm moving?" John laughed nervously. Mycroft gave John a look of detest.

"It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?"

"Moriarty?" John asked with a gulp.

"He promised Sherlock he'd come back. We both know what's coming, John. Moriarty is obsessed." Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the ground. "Now, is there anything you would like to share?"

"H-He said you were off to Moscow… nine days. That he'd need your spare key. He didn't tell me his plan."

"And do you have your key?"

John searched his pockets. He looked back to the side-table. "No, he must have taken it."

Mycroft looked at John sorrowfully. He ran his hand over his face, obviously looking for the words to say. "I had better go check."

"I'll go with you." John turned to grab his trainers.

"No. No." Mycroft let out a sigh. "You've done quite enough." Mycroft brought two fingers to his temple.

"I'm sorry." John looked at the floor. A deafening silence fell upon the room. John shifted uncomfortably. "I am so sorry. He came back for me."

_I lured him back._

"I just want to know… You knew about the night club, you knew from the beginning. You had to have been watching me. I knew this early on yet it never crossed my mind that you would continue your surveillance once we started..." John paused. "I just want to know… what you know."

"John, now isn't the time." Mycroft said with a sigh.

"Please… I have to know." John pleaded.

Mycroft took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "You've been intimate on four occasions. Once before Gregory Lestrade, once during, once when we were pretending, and once when we were not." Mycroft let out a sigh through his nose. John's blood ran cold.

"Is that why you sent Sherlock away?" John asked fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

"I knew he would be safe in Oxfordshire." Mycroft said plainly.

"Is it true? What he says… about this whole thing being just an act?"

Mycroft looked John straight in the eye. "You tell me." Mycroft's phone chimed. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled it out. He gave the phone a quick glance and put it back. Mycroft grabbed his umbrella around the middle and opened the door.

He left John alone with his thoughts.

_Sherlock is OK. He has to be OK. Mycroft would tell me if he wasn't. I should have told him. Why didn't I tell him?_

John rushed to open the door. He looked down the stairwell and Mycroft was gone. He clung on to the banister with such force his knuckles turned white.

_How could I be so foolish?_

John took in a breath.

_Maybe he's fine. Yes… he's fine… He's at the high-rise, likely got caught breaking in. They're holding him there. Everything is fine._

John tried to ease his mind with comforting thoughts.

_Have a cuppa, calm your nerves. I believe in Mycroft… He only has power because people believe he has power… damnit Sherlock._

John walked uneasily down the stairs. He was weak at the knees and his stomach felt like it was in knots. He knew he was close to a panic attack and needed to calm himself down. He opened the door to the sitting room.

His attention was immediately drawn to Sherlock's violin.

_Why would he set his violin on my chair?_

On the side table next to the chair was a tea tray. John walked closer and examined the set up.

_He used the fine china… and loose leaf tea… why would he make a whole pot of tea for himself?_

In the middle of the tea tray was a solitary cup, half empty. John looked towards Sherlock's chair. His face dropped and he turned ghost white. He walked over to Sherlock's chair and reached out to see if what he was seeing was real.

His fingers ran across the waxy surface to the exposed browning flesh of the bright red apple.

"I owe you." John felt a tightening in his chest. He stood frozen for what felt like an eternity. Embedded in the centre of the apple was the instrument used to carve the letters. John picked up the apple and turned it to pull out the object lodged inside. He gave it a good tug, placed the apple back on the seat cushion, and held the small object in the palm of his hand.

He stared at it, not wanting to believe any of it.

_Mycroft's key._

John darted out of the room with the key clutched in his hand. He ran up the stairs to his room and flung open the door. He went straight for his mobile. His hands shook as he pulled up Mycroft's contact information. He pressed call and prayed.

_Please answer, please answer._

John ran his thumb over the key, his eyes started to well with tears. The call went straight to voice-mail. John groaned in agony. He pressed end and composed a text in hope that Mycroft was still reachable.

**Turn back, it's a trap.**

John threw the phone and key on his bed and ran his hands through his hair. He began pacing the floor nervously.

_Greg._

John reached for his phone and searched his contacts.

"Shit!" He screamed.

_Mycroft transferred all but Greg's number. Fuck!_

John picked up his phone once more and stared at it. His mind flashed to a poster he'd seen on the tube. _101_.

_Oh please patch me over to the Met._

John prayed as he dialled. The automated voice system informed him he was being sent through to the Metropolitan Police and John shouted "Yes!" A woman's voice answered and John cut her off immediately. "I need to speak with Detective Constable Lestrade, it's an emergency."

_"Sir, this line is reserved for non-emergencies."_ She snapped.

"I need to get a hold of TDC Lestrade." John tried to keep his voice down. "Please… it's important." There was silence on the other end.

John's heart jumped out of his chest as he heard Greg's voice _"Hello?"_

"Oh thank God, Greg."

_"John! What are you doing calling me at work_?" Greg asked slightly annoyed.

"Sherlock's missing."

_"Not our division. You'll be wanting missing persons."_

"For fuck's sake Greg!" John shouted.

_"Call 999. File a report."_

"It hasn't been twenty-four hours!"

_"Doesn't have to be, you can call em the moment you think a persons gone missing. Now come on John, I've got work."_

"It's Moran Greg." The phone went silent. "Greg?"

_"I'll be over. Give me time."_

"We haven't got time! He's there now. Mycroft as well… by God… I've sent them both to their deaths. It's all my fault."

_"What are you going on about?"_

"Moriarty has them both. He's kidnapped Sherlock and Mycroft went looking for him and I don't know what to do! I'm freaking out! This is madness! How could I let him out of my sight for two seconds with that madman on the loose? By God Greg, what do I do?"

_"Hold tight, I'll be there, fast as I can."_ The phone went dead and John whimpered. He bounced up and down on his feet. He couldn't hold tight for ten seconds let alone ten minutes.

John ran down stairs once more and started searching the flat for additional clues.

_Moriarty was obviously here, but where has he taken him? They had to have intercepted Mycroft at the high-rise. Or before… or after… Fuck! I'm not bloody Sherlock Holmes, I can't do this!_

John scanned the room from floor to ceiling.

_Not a speck of dust out of place._

John turned and walked through the kitchen. He entered Sherlock's room to find it untouched. The bed was made with military precision with hospital corners.

_Sherlock didn't make this bed._

John stripped the covers to find a book. He stared at it in disbelief.

_The Complete Works of William Shakespeare._

He reached out and grabbed the book. When he lifted the book a coin fell out of its pages. John picked up the brass coin and flipped it over several times, examining it.

_What does a quid have to do with Shakespeare?_


	44. Chapter 44

"John this is Inspector Gregson, he's going to ask you a few questions, bout Sherlock and your… erm… Mycroft."

John sat in shock looking over the book's cover.

_What am I suppose to see?_

"Mr. Watson is it?" DI Gregson asked flipping open his notepad. John sat still staring blankly at the book. "Mhm. Right then." He coughed. "When was the last time you saw your, cousin is it?" John blinked. He looked up at Gregson with a blank look on his face.

"A pound sterling…" John said mechanically. "A pound."

"The boy appears to be in a bit of shock, constable." DI Gregson said looking at John with concern. Greg walked over and put a hand on John's shoulder.

"A pound." John said handing the coin over to Greg. Greg looked it over.

"That it is." Greg said with a nod. He looked at the book in John's hand. DI Gregson reached out his hand and Greg placed the coin in his outreached palm.

"You believe it was the kidnapper who left this?" DI Gregson asked. John nodded solemnly. "Right." Gregson said smacking his lips. "Book as well?" John nodded. "Let us see." Gregson said reaching for the book.

"You're certain this is Moran?" Greg said squeezing John's hand. John nodded, deep in thought.

_Why didn't I pay better attention in English literature?_

Gregson thumbed through the pages. "Ain't a thing written on these pages… save the sonnets and plays. Not much of a ransom note, now is it?"

"Could it be a clue sir? A hint to their location." Greg suggested.

"Perhaps." Gregson said searching the pages once more. He looked at the coin in his hand. "And this was with the book?"

"In the book…" John said staring off into space.

"What page?" Greg asked. John groaned and put his hands to his face.

_Oh no._

"It fell out." John cried. Greg patted his back.

"It's all right, we'll get this sorted." Greg said soothingly.

"Right, when's the last time you saw the boy?" Gregson asked tucking the book into an evidence bag along with the coin.

"Midnight, last night… I woke up and he was gone."

"And Mycroft, has he any relations to the boy?" Gregson asked jotting down notes.

"He's his brother." John said bringing his hands away from his face and looking at the floor. Greg gave him a stunned look. John went red in the face from embarrassment.

"So he's your cousin as well then?"

"No… neither of them are…" John shook his head. Greg stood up straight and back away. John didn't dare meet his gaze. DI Gregson gave Greg an odd look.

"Constable, you look like you've seen a ghost, you're as pale as a sheet my boy."

"M'fine… sir… just… need a bit of water… is all…" Greg turned and headed straight for the kitchen.

"Wonder what the boys at the yard will make of this." Gregson thought out loud. "A quid in a collection of Shakespeare. What's a pound got to do with a playwright?"

"A pound…" John repeated. "A pound of flesh."

"Excuse me?" Gregson said with a furrowed brow.

"The apple." John said jumping up.

"An… apple?" Gregson asked confused. Greg walked out of the kitchen to see John diving towards Sherlock's chair.

"Yes! The apple with the I.O.U.!" John shouted throwing the apple to Gregson who near fumbled it. "The apple with the key."

"What does a fruit got to do with this?" Gregson asked looking over the carved apple.

"I have no bloody idea!" John shouted with a laugh. "All I remember is a pound of flesh! Shakespeare! Something about some guy owing some other guy money and if he wasn't going to pay him back he was going to take a pound of the guy's flesh."

"Merchant of Venice?" Greg asked.

"Quick! The book!" John lunged forward towards the inspector. He withdrew the book and handed it to John. John flipped to the table of contents and scanned for _The Merchant of Venice_. He flipped through the pages and landed on the list of characters.

"Shylock?" John questioned. "A Jewish moneylender."

"Yes well… if I'm not mistaken… he's the one that wanted that pound of flesh from… erm… Antonio… I'm afraid it's been quite some time since I've read anything Shakespeare." Gregson said looking at the page over John's shoulder.

"This cannot be coincidence." John said skimming through the pages. "What are we supposed to see?"

_Maybe it's written in invisible ink. No… then the pages would be distorted. This is a freshly printed book. The binding hasn't even been cracked. What is it about The Merchant of Venice? Shylock…_

DI Gregson's two-way radio cracked. "Excuse me a moment." He stepped out on to the landing to talk over with the control centre. Greg walked over.

"When were you going to tell me he wasn't your cousin?" Greg said through his teeth.

"Greg… I can't right now."

"Now's as good a time as any."

"No it isn't. Sherlock's missing and I've got to find him." John held up the book. "And this is all I've got. Please… you've got to help me." John pleaded.

"He's a little boy John, what the hell were you thinking?"

"Please." John said with tears in his eyes.

"I… I don't even know where to start." Greg shook his head.

"He has both of them held up somewhere and I haven't a clue where. I've got a book, an apple, and a pound. Sherlock would have cracked this by now." John shook his head.

"Listen… I don't know what the hell is going on here… between you two… you three! For God's sake John. What have you gotten yourself into?"

"I don't know!" John cried. "Help me!"

DI Gregson walked back in. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes sir. Just going over some information." Gregson stepped back outside to finish his call. "Listen… we're going to need to go soon. I'll see what I can do. I just… I just don't know John."

John held back his tears.

"Don't go searching for them John. Let the police handle this. I'll call you if I get word of anything." Greg put a hand on John's shoulder. "Just sit tight and when all of this is sorted… you and I will have us a talk." Greg nodded. "All right?" John looked at the floor and nodded. Greg let go and walked toward the door.

DI Gregson popped in briefly to say good-bye and reassure John that they'd take care of everything. John took a seat in his chair and sat there, staring out the window.

He couldn't believe what had transpired in such a short amount of time. Both Sherlock and Mycroft were gone and now Greg wasn't going to be of any assistance because he knew John was a paedophile. Not that the police were ever of any use.

_I'm going to lose both of them and go to prison… all in the same day._

John ran his hands through his hair.

_Think… think… Scotland Yard is useless. I'm the one who has to solve this._

John steepled his fingers and brought them to his lips, a tear rolled down his cheek.

_I'm not a Holmes. I can't do this. I can't bloody do this. I wish Sherlock was here. He'd know precisely what this all means. Oh, why'd I let him take the book? The pound as well! Shit!_

John stood up.

_Maybe he's left something else in the flat. Another clue. Anything._

John paced the floor.

_He would have taken them somewhere symbolic. It'd have to be symbolic. Perhaps near the high-rise, perhaps not. A church… if not a clock tower… Yes, yes. That would make sense. He wanted me, specifically me, to find the book and the coin. He knew my mental limitations, he's a smart lad. He'd know just where I'd look._

John's eyes caught the manilla folder on Sherlock's desk.

_Bingo._

John opened it up to find all of the old pictures of the clock towers that Sherlock had once tacked to the wall.

_Now which one is it?_

John laid the photos out on the table

_Six… six… This can't be that hard. Now which one isn't it?_

John threw out Elizabeth Tower and King's Cross along with Westminster Cathedral.

_St. Pancras as well… another railway station… cannot be a high traffic area. That leaves us with two. Great Saint Barts… A possibility… Sherlock was looking at it with great intent when he came to the conclusion that Moriarty was behind all of this. This must be it!_

John looked at the photo.

_But what has it got to do with the clues?_

John stared at it just as if he was Sherlock. He tried to make all the mental connections, but instead his head swarmed with non-sense. He put the photo back down, feeling defeated. He let out a heavy sigh and picked up the last photograph. He held it in his hands.

_Saint Lawrence… Saint Lawrence… Where have I seen this before?_

John opened up his laptop, opened up his browser and typed into Google Maps 'St Lawrence'.

"Holy shit!" John shouted. "Saint Lawrence _Jewry_!"

_Right off of Gresham Street. By God I've done it._


	45. Chapter 45

"Is that a Smith and Wesson in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both." John said pulling the revolver out of his pocket. "N-Now let them go or I-I-"

"I-I-I-I." Jim mocked. "Or I'll what?"

John gulped. "Shoot you through your bloody fucking teeth." John hissed.

"John. John." Jim tsked. "You couldn't shoot the broad side of a building."

"Y-you wanna t-test that hypothesis?" John stammered. The gun shook in his hands. Jim rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed by the cowering boy. John bit his bottom lip and tried to steady his breathing.

"Didn't your daddy tell you not to play with guns?" Jim pursed his lips. "Oh… that's right… he never got around to that did he?"

"Y-you… you shut up about my father." John's hands started to steady.

"Oh you're holding it all wrong. Here let me show you." Jim said walking towards him. John held steady.

"You're insane!" He shouted as Jim reached out for the gun.

"You're just getting that now?" Jim laughed. "Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive. Your little _friends_ will die if you don't." Jim motioned back to Mycroft and Sherlock who were bound and gagged seated in chairs across from one another. A mess of wires ran between them, connected to a black box in the middle with a bright red LED screen that showed the numbers '0.00'.

John held tight on to the revolver. Jim looked at him rather bored. He tongued the back of his cheek and tapped his foot. Jim held out his hand and beckoned for the revolver.

John looked at Mycroft who was roughed up. He had a nasty gash on the side of his forehead that was dripping beads of blood on to his white shirt. He'd been stripped of his suit and waist coat. His wrists and ankles were raw from struggling against his bindings. John noticed that his white cloth gag was soaked with blood.

"Yeah…" Jim drawled. "Hm. Wasn't the most cooperative hostage." Jim hummed. "Had to do a little dental work." Jim said raising his eyebrows. John looked at him in horror. "I think I removed his sweet tooth." Jim said with a wicked smile.

John looked to Sherlock who was perfectly untouched. He seemed completely numb to the situation. "He's sweet, I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touching and loyal." Jim clacked his teeth together. "I should get myself a live-in one."

"Let them go." John said firmly. He held the gun steady, pointed straight at Jim's forehead.

"Now, now, John. You're so… _greedy."_ Jim said with a laugh. "Nah… you tell me, how does a guy like you, get _both_?" Jim looked up at him with hatred in his eyes. "HOW!" His shout echoed in the hollow clock tower and made John jump at the sheer volume of it. Jim rolled his neck and licked his lips. "You know, I have a big client list. Rogue governments. Intelligence communities. Terror cells. They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex."

"Why are you doing all of this?" John asked shifting uncomfortably. His arms were starting to ache from holding his position.

"I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves me the best!' Aren't ordinary people adorable?" Jim's face grimaced. "Mm, but not Sherlock. He was so… _different_ and you… You talk big but you're ordinary John. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels." Jim turned his back to John and let out an aggravated sigh. "It's so BORING!" He shouted. Mycroft winced. "Who… THE FUCK! Told you, you could move?" Jim screamed at him.

Jim walked over and took a seat on Mycroft's lap. "Mmmmm Mikey. How's about we tell Johnny boy how this is going to work?" Mycroft stared at Jim with fear in his eyes. "Oh you're no fun. Sherlock!" Jim said standing up. "Sherly my dear boy." He walked over and brushed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He positioned himself behind Sherlock and gripped his shoulders like a hawk.

Sherlock winced at Jim's vice grip. He leaned in close and ghosted his lips over Sherlock's ear. His whisper was barely audible over the noise of the clock's gears. John could hardly make out the words " _Have you told him?"_ Jim pulled away and pouted. "I thought not."

John rolled his shoulders and pointed the gun once more at Jim's forehead as he moved closer. "God! Listen to that clock tock."

"It's out of beat." John said.

"Very _good._ My God, I've misjudged you."

"Clock's been moved without stopping the pendulum, it's rigged to explode."

"BOOM!" Jim chuckled. "Yeah… would have been much… much more spectacular, if _someone_ didn't get greedy and take all my money." Jim titled his head to the side. "It's not nice to take things that don't belong to you. Now is it John?"

"I don't know where it is."

"LIAR!" Jim shouted. He took in a deep breath and brushed the front of his suit. He looked at a fixed spot on the floor and exhaled slowly. "I don't like it when people lie to me, John. Now tell me, where's my money?"

"I don't know." John said through clenched teeth.

"Pity… I was going to let you… walk away…" Jim shook his head slowly and pursed his lips. "Now you have to make a choice."

"What's my choice?"

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." Jim pouted. "You're going to break one of these lad's hearts. Would you like that John? Would you like to burn the _heart_ out of one of them?" John remained motionless. "I thought not…" Jim's sentence hung suspended in mid-air. The room fell silent except for the _tock-tick_ of the clock.

John stared at the black box between the brothers.

"I know you're dying to know how this set up works." Jim smiled at his little creation. "You see, you have been a greedy little boy John and I owe you one. So I'm giving it to you!" Jim let out a squeal of delight. "You choose the brother you'd like and then break the other's heart."

Jim brought his hands to his lips and giggled. "Literally!" he squealed. "You make your choice, and the other gets two-hundred milli-amperes, direct current, straight to their heart." Jim flattened his hands against his lips and drew in a deep breath of satisfaction. "You will _break_ their heart, is it not brilliant?"

"It's sick… this is madness."

"Oh God John, don't set me up for a 300 quote." Jim rolled his eyes in disgust. Jim rubbed his hands down his face. "I'm offering you an out John." Jim sighed. "Take it." Jim tapped his foot impatiently. "All right, you get five minutes. Make your choice."

The red LED screen on the box flicked to show '5.00' rapidly counting down.

"No! No! Wait!" John shouted.

"I've waited long enough! Five minutes… Oh no wait four minutes and forty-five, four, three, two, oh dear God John! You'd better hurry. Who's it going to be?"

John looked back and forth between the man and the boy. Mycroft motioned his head towards Sherlock and Sherlock motioned his eyes towards the box. John broke into a cold sweat and started shaking.

_Will caring about them help save them?_


	46. Chapter 46

"You want me to make this easier for you?"

John stared at the bright red LED screen as the time was rapidly swept away. He willed time to stop, if only for a moment, so he could put his thoughts together, think clearly. If only he could find a way out of this mess.

"I said!" Jim shouted impatiently. "Do you want me to make this easier?" John nodded tentatively. "Good. Let's stop the clock, give us a little time to have a breather. You'd like that wouldn't you?" John nodded. "Too bad." Jim said in a high pitched sing-song voice. John's pulse raced, his hands began to sweat; he found it difficult to keep a solid grip on the revolver. "Sorry! I'm soooo changeable! It is a weakness with me. But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

Jim walked leisurely over to Sherlock and stood behind his chair. He clutched Sherlock's shoulders once more, digging his claws in; making Sherlock grimace. Jim let out a hiss through his teeth as he shifted his weight on to one foot and leaned forward. "I asked my little… play thing… whether or not he told you."

"Told me what?"

"There's no need to interrupt." Jim said with a scoff. "If you're going to be rude, I'm going to have to speed up the clock and… Oh dear only three minutes left. Where was I?" Jim tapped his foot as he thought. Sherlock continued to stare at the LED screen. "Oh yes, that's right. Sherlock never told you." Jim smiled wickedly. "What he's been hiding." Sherlock blinked, John saw a hint of shame in his eyes. "He's such a good little pet. You asked me how I taught him to be so obedient. A little operant conditioning, don't you remember?" Jim's ramblings were quickly eating up time and John hadn't yet reached a decision, though he was quite certain he was on the verge of making one, very soon.

"A little positive reinforcement. He does as he's told and he receives the stimulus he desires." Jim ran his fingers sensually through Sherlock's curls. "Isn't that right Sherlock?" Sherlock glared at the black box as if he could destroy it with his mind. "Seven percent, such a clever boy. Enough to get him going, without losing his ability to function." Jim stroked under Sherlock's chin. "It does have quite the effect on our little Sherlock." Jim licked his lips. "He was absolutely vicious, near tore me apart." Jim chuckled. "You think he'd just give it up? Give me up?"

"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now." John clenched his teeth and steadied his hand.

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. Because I'd be surprised, John. Really I would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." Jim chuckled. "You seem to have forgotten my friend. Sebastian… why don't you say hi to our dear John?" Jim smiled as the red dot from the laser's sight shone brightly on John's chest. John gulped. "Right on target. Of course, the laser is just for show. Sebastian does love to be _dramatic."_

"Well thank God you're above all that." Jim responded to John with a small chuckle.

"Now shall we finish the game?" Jim stepped away from Sherlock and shoved his hands in his pockets. He sauntered over to John. "Well? Who is it going to be? Thirty seconds left. Have you made your choice?"

"Yes." John said plainly. He let his arms fall to his sides. John looked toward Mycroft who was silently begging, nodding towards Sherlock.

_Act or not. I won't let this happen to him. I've done enough damage already._

Jim looked at John intently. John grabbed the gun by the muzzle and held it out for Jim. Jim grabbed the handle and looked at John confused. John watched as the seconds ticked down.

_10, 9, 8_

"Well?" Jim asked impatiently.

7, 6, 5

Jim bit his bottom lip.

4, 3, 2

"Neither."

1

The room fell silent. The clock stopped ticking, the box's LED flashed 0. John was left, facing down Moriarty, gun in his hand.

"What!" Jim shouted.

"I said neither." John repeated.

"That's…" Jim tongued the back of his cheek. He looked back at Sherlock and Mycroft with a furrowed brow. "How do you mean?"

"This is between you and me."

"Yes, yes it is." Jim nodded. "So you're not going to choose?"

"I did choose." John looked at the black box. "You said if I chose one over the other I'd break the other's heart. I choose to have neither." John shrugged. "You said I can't have both. That was the only stipulation."

"Erm." Jim said scratching the back of his head with the muzzle of the gun. "So… you're just going to break… both their hearts?"

"The only heart broken is my own." John said taking in a deep breath and holding it.

"Oh… I see." Jim said "You think I'll just let them both walk free if you sacrifice yourself?" John closed his eyes and nodded. "If you insist." Jim said with a shrug.

John heard the thunderous crack of the gunshot. He knew he'd been hit, but he felt no pain.

_Oh my God, I've died. Was that one or two shots?_

He felt each beat of his heart pound loudly in his chest.

_I'm not dead._

He started to feel a burning sensation in his left shoulder. The pain soon became excruciating. It felt as if his shoulder had been lit on fire. John was struck with horror when he started to feel hot blood start pouring out of the wound. He fell to his knees. The back of his shirt soon became soaked in blood.

His vision blurred and he found it hard to hold himself upright any longer. He fell forward, face first, on to the ground. He started to feel cold lying in the pool of his own blood.

"Stay with me." A voice rang out in the bell tower. John couldn't tell if the voice was next to him or on the other side of the room. Everything was disoriented. He closed his eyes.

_Only for a moment. I'm just so tired._

"John!" John was certain it was a man's voice.

_Just let me sleep._

_"John."_ Another voice said soothingly.

"Mum?" John's eyes flicked open. John immediately started feeling the horrible burning sensation once more. He shut his eyes and the pain was gone. It was the oddest sensation, he felt warmth coursing through his veins and it all seemed to pool in his lower extremities. He felt the warm feeling of urinary release.

His eyes shot open once more, only to be met with the terrible pain. That voice kept nagging him to stay awake. He was sure it wasn't his own voice but he couldn't figure out who the voice belonged to.

John suddenly felt a panic rush over him. He wasn't concerned about death and the after-life, he was worried about leaving the world without saying good-bye to the ones he loved. John forced his eyes open.

_I can't leave them, they need me._

_I can't leave him, he needs me._


	47. Chapter 47

It took a while for John to come to his senses. He knew time had passed, how much, he was uncertain. His eyes were open but he couldn't see clearly. The room was dimly lit but he was sure he was in a hospital bed from the feel and smell of the heavily bleached cotton sheets.

_I made it._

John let out a sigh of relief. He was exhausted but alive. He tried to remember the events leading up to his hospitalization.

_I gave Moriarty the gun, I told him to shoot me. There were two shots fired. Neither came from Jim._

John remembered his shoulder. He couldn't feel his arm. He began to panic.

"No." He groaned. He felt a tear form in the corner of his eye. Then he felt a tight squeeze on his left hand. A jolt ran through his spine followed by pin pricks. He turned his head to see a hand holding his.

"They didn't take it, don't worry." John instantly relaxed at the familiar voice. He saw his fingers twitch. "I told them you were attached to it so they let it be."

"I'm not dead."

"I can see that."

"How long have you been here?" John asked trying to focus his vision.

"The whole time. For the most part, haven't left your bedside. Had to keep a close eye on the doctors when they started talking about amputation."

"How long have I been out?"

"Two, near three days now. They kept you under on purpose. You caused quite a stir. Took five nurses to hold you down, you were putting up a hell of a fight."

"I don't remember." John gulped. "I remember getting shot." John grimaced and licked his bottom lip which was dry and cracked. "I just wanted to sleep but this voice kept telling me to stay with him."

"If it wasn't for Greg…" A silence fell on the room. "He feels so guilty."

"Why?" John shifted up slightly.

"He says he didn't know the gun wasn't loaded."

"Is he dead? Moriarty?" John whispered.

"He says the body was stolen from the crime scene. He's almost certain he's dead though, he shot him through the head."

John grimaced at the thought. He tried to recall the events that occurred but they were all a blur.

_I had my eyes closed. I heard the first shot, the impact. I could hardly make out the second shot. Greg didn't know Moran was in the rafters._

"How did he know where I was?"

"He came back to your flat and found the photo and opened your laptop to find the directions to the church in your internet history."

"My… laptop is password protected…" John was hit with a sudden sadness.

"He says it was Sherlocked."

John felt another squeeze on his hand. "I'm sorry, I don't know how it ever got this far… I should have never…"

"Shh." He felt a warm hand run through his hair. "I know." John closed his eyes. "We've all done things we can't understand, I know I've done my fair share of things that I couldn't possibly explain."

"I'm a terrible person."

"No you're not. You threw yourself in front of a speeding bullet so others wouldn't have to suffer. John, you're a saint."

John couldn't disagree more.

_I broke both of their hearts. I let Moriarty get inside my head; I'm no better than he is._

"Don't be too hard on yourself. You're young; you are going to make mistakes. That's your job."

"You don't understand… there were lives at stake, actual human lives."

"And you saved those lives. You're a hero."

"Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them." John put his right hand to his face and rubbed his forehead.

"God Johnny, could you be any more of a flaming queer?" John narrowed his eyes and glared at his sister.

"I've just been shot and you're going to pick a fight?"

"Well, here I am, going on about how much of a fucking martyr you are and all you can say is 'don't make me into a hero'?" Harry let go of John's hand and turned away. "Take a complement."

"I destroyed their lives."

"Seriously?" She scoffed. "Are they dead?" John groaned in response. "No. And you know why? Because you're a bloody fucking saint and don't tell me otherwise."

"Unh, shut up Harriet, I'm not a-"

"God, I preferred it when you were unconscious."

"Me too." John let out a small laugh. Harry rolled her eyes.

"You know, when you finally admitted you were gay I was scared shitless that you'd end up with AIDS and using. Didn't imagine you'd get into this shit."

"You don't know the pressure I was under, how confusing this all was… I didn't even know Sherlock was fourteen until after-"

"Whoa… whoa! Hold up." She held up her hands. "I meant getting involved with terrorists and bombs and shit." She furrowed her brows. "You've been banging a minor?"

"And his brother." John said with a groan.

Harry chuckled deep. "Oh, ho. It looks like you're trying to get an one-up on me." She brought her hands to her mouth to cover her smile. "That's fucked up bro."

"I know." John winced. His arm started to burn. His shoulder shook involuntarily.

"Pain?" She asked with a sympathetic look. John nodded. He clenched his teeth. The pain's intensity escalated quickly. "All right, I'll see who I can yell at to get you some Valium." She left the room in a hurry. John's neck muscles tensed and started shaking as well. He went to clutch on to his bandage. A sharp pain seared through him. He started seeing star bursts.

John closed his eyes and tried to take his mind off the pain. He tried to remember a time before Sherlock and Mycroft. A time when he was truly happy.

He couldn't think of one.

He thought of Sherlock's low throaty perverted laugh, the way Mycroft would fight smiling by pursing his lips. How Sherlock would get excited over the simplest of things and wouldn't be able to contain his joy. How Mycroft would blush when John complemented him. The way Sherlock would flutter around in constant motion and talk incessantly about what he believed mattered. He thought of Mycroft's 'are you serious?' look and Sherlock's constantly mockery of John's intelligence.

John felt warm inside. He felt his pain melt away. He felt himself drift off. He entered a dreamless sleep only to be awoken by another familiar voice.

"What?" John asked.

"Asked how the Valium's treating you." Greg took a seat at John's bedside.

"Mm." John hummed.

"That good eh?"

"I may prefer it to morphine." John felt slightly loopy. His vision was still hazy; he wondered if it was going to be permanently distorted. Greg started shaking his head.

"What's happened to you?" Greg sighed. "I feel responsible… for everything… If I had taken the time… checked the surroundings…"

"It isn't your fault I was shot." John said trying to pat Greg's hand, his left arm was less than compliant and he ended up only tapping Greg's hand with his little finger.

"I left you alone, in your time of need. Of course you were going to go after them. I knew it… yet I did nothing to prevent it." Greg rested his head on the bedside. "I might as well have shot you myself." John brushed his fingers through Greg's hair which had become considerably more grey over the past few months. "I've done nothing but hurt you since I moved to London. I should have stopped this. All of this from happening." Greg groaned. "I knew he wasn't your cousin. Damnit John, why didn't I save you? Why couldn't I do it?"

"Maybe I didn't want to be saved." John said with a sigh.

"It's all my fault." Greg clutched John's hand and held it tight. "I don't blame you. Not one bit. If I would have been there… I screwed you from the beginning." Greg let out a sad laugh. "I mean, I ran off with that _stupid_ bitch." Greg closed his eyes. "Of course, she goes and turns on me. God… fuck… You would have never gone through any of this if I could have kept it in my pants."

"Join the club." John said with a sigh.

"Wish I could take it all back." Greg let out a heavy sigh.

"I don't know if I'd have it any other way." Greg lifted up his head to look at John. "I mean… I got into some serious shit, there's no doubt." Greg wiped his nose with his sleeve. "But it was one hell of an adventure." Greg laughed.

"There you go with your silver lining." Greg shook his head. "I don't think this was the journey you were looking for when you'd go running off into the woods at night." Greg smiled.

"No. I could have never, in my wildest dreams, imagined going on such a crazy voyage like this." John laughed. "I stared down a criminal mastermind's soul-less eyes and held a gun to his head. I've run through the streets of London being chased by a blood-thirsty Asian with a vegetable cleaver. I stopped Soho from being wiped off the map. I broke into a drug cartel's house minutes before he was expected home. I've jumped off roof tops, taken down terrorists, and solved a cryptogram all on my own. I barely made it out alive. It was all wild and dangerous and stupid but I wouldn't have ever given it up for a normal healthy adult relationship."

"How are you going to cope when everything goes back to normal?"

"Normal?" John scoffed. "Things can never go back to normal."

"You're going to have to move on John."

"Move on?" John asked.

"The Holmes brothers have returned to Oxfordshire."

"What?" John shot up in bed only to be met with excruciating pain.

"John calm down."

"Why?"

"You're going to hurt yourself."

"No! Why are they in Oxfordshire?" John shouted. He clutched on to his bandage, he felt wet hot blood start oozing down his back.

"Their gran passed away. They're attending her funeral."

John fell back heavily. He let out a pained hiss.

"The elder Holmes is going to have to attend to the estate. He's going to have little time for anything else." Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You've got to finish school John." Greg pleaded.

"And what of Sherlock?" John asked.

"No." Greg stated.

"What's going to happen to him?"

"Doesn't matter."

John clenched his fist. "It does matter."

Greg shook his head. "Doesn't matter until he's sixteen." John clamped his eyes shut and gritted his teeth.

"Sherlock's… my best friend. You can't-"

"I can and I am." Greg pulled back. "I'm sorry John. You can't be under the same roof as the boy."

"I was so alone… I owe him so much." John choked back tears. "I can't return to Baker Street if Sherlock won't be there." John sniffled. "I can't stay in London."

"John you'd be throwing away everything you have worked for."

"No. I know a way." John shook his head. "I can't go back to a normal way of living. I just can't."

John's shoulder took five months to completely heal. He was able to regain full range of motion and pass his physicals for entering the Royal Military Academy in January. His life felt like it was on fast-forward. He concentrated solely on healing and building up his physique. He kept Moran in his mind; he was determined to settle their old score.

This time he wouldn't cower in fear. The army would build him, make him stronger than ever. He needed the structure and discipline. He could be a better doctor overseas. He would save lives instead of cure the sniffles. He pined for the battlefield. When he used to walk beside Sherlock he could see it. Hear the bullets rip. Feel the fear and excitement of the unknown.

John loved every moment of being yelled at by his instructors, told what to do and how to do it. His mind was occupied; his body was pushed to its limits. He had little time to think of anything other than the task at hand.

After forty-eight weeks at Sandhurst he moved on to his career development. He found it much more practical and hands on than ordinary medical school. The defence medical services training was intense. He learned more in a day than he did a whole year at Barts.

He moved on to the Royal Defence Medical College which focused his attention on military-specific medicine. It wasn't long before he was back at Sandhurst. After a final ten weeks he was a general duties medical officer, was given rank of captain, and was thrown on the first flight out to Afghanistan with the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

Before John could blink, a decade had been eaten away from his life. The days ran long in Afghanistan but John quickly became used to his new life.

John was sweating bullets walking through the streets of Kabul with a nurse with the unfortunate name of Bill Murray. He was cautious walking through the crowded market, he saw several scruffy looking men eying the Browning L9A1 tethered to him.

He desperately wanted to take off his helmet but he knew it was a risk in such a crowded area. His hair was soaked with sweat that was leaking down the back of his neck, making a trail down curve of his back. A bead of sweat traveled down his arse crack and he officially felt disgusting. They reached a clearing in the crowd of people and John was met with a warm rush of air that wasn't at all satisfying.

"God, for fuck's sake." The corporal said rubbing the sweat off his upper lip. "I'm sweating in places I didn't know had sweat glands." John grunted in agreement. Bill checked his wristwatch. "Jesus, can you believe it? September… bloody September and it's near thirty-eight degrees."

"Incubating temperature." John said running his finger on the inside of his collar trying to let some air in.

"It's at least twenty degrees cooler where I'm from."

_He's trying to make casual conversation. Next he'll ask where I'm from._

"Bournemouth, fucking beautiful this time of year."

"Language corporal, let's keep moving." John walked away and Bill followed dutifully.

"That's a nice watch you have there." Bill said pointing to John's TAG.

"Yeah, um, thanks." John said pulling at the watch. "Gift." He mumbled.

"So's mine. Casio. It's got an altimeter, barometer. I can set five alarms on this thing, know the time in China. Used to have a calculator one but my mum said I needed something more sophisticated."Bill twisted the watch on his wrist. "All digital. See your's is analogue. Roman numerals even."

"Mine tells the time."

"Yeah." Bill chuckled. "Haven't quite figured out that function yet." John cracked a smile. "Didn't know you were capable of smiling Captain." John merely shook his head and kept walking. "BAMF Watson, the one that got shot before Afghanistan."

"It must be such an honour." John rolled his eyes.

"Is it true? You know… the nickname?" Bill asked with a smirk.

"You're prying."

"We have seven hours before sundown, I'm just trying to you know... break the ice." Bill laughed to himself. "How do you go about getting a name like 'Three Continents Watson'?"

John let out a berated sigh. "From soldiers that have nothing better to do with their time than spread rumours about their officers."

"Wish they'd spread rumours like that about me." Bill mumbled. John shook his head slightly as they continued to roam aimlessly. They were playing the waiting game. John wanted to have his hands busy with the wounded civilians but he was stuck on the streets until sundown when his sub-unit would be loaded on to a lorry and sent to the Pakistani border.

He'd been to the border several times before. Tribesmen entered the country more or less freely. They'd cram through a narrow crack in the fence; customs was an absolute joke. If one looked remotely middle-eastern they had free access to either side.

There was no telling who was friend or foe on the border, they all looked disgruntled to him. John admitted he would be rather cross if he had to commute to Afghanistan through a hole in a fence every day. For the most part John avoided eye contact with the natives and they left him alone.

The most dangerous part of visiting the border wasn't the border itself but rather the route. Units would often run into unofficial check-points and rogue IEDs on the long stretches of road. Gun fire was rare outside the city. John heard of a freak upset involving a goat and a Kalashnikov assault rifle which ended in mostly civilian casualties and a solitary dead American.

John had come to find anything could spark anger and hatred even in the most docile of people. He blamed the heat. The soldiers were the worst. John felt empathy for the civilians that had to deal with irritable white men that constantly made rude remarks about their culture and complained incessantly about the weather.

_We're in the bloody desert. Yes there's dirt everywhere, yes it's always this hot._

John preferred working with injured civilians than with whiny soldiers. He had patched up a small boy who lost his fingers in a milling blade that belly-ached less than a commanding officer that had caught his toe on an exposed nail.

Work was interesting though. It kept his heart racing and his adrenaline pumping. In midst of chaos and shouting John felt the world move in slow motion. He was in his element when everything around him was falling apart. He could keep his head cool, revert back to his training, and feel confident in his actions and choices.

He slept soundly at night though he hardly dreamt. He spent his down-time in the barracks reading. Other officers his age spent most of their time pining for pussy. It was an overwhelmingly annoying topic that popped up casually in almost any conversation.

John ignored the subject all together. The rumours of John's promiscuity and play-boy lifestyle originated on the shooting range. John was a crack-shot. His hand didn't waver an ounce. He could hit a moving target with deadly accuracy. He had nerves of steel and resembled nothing of the cowering boy in the clock tower.

Some men got to talking, saying John was a bad-arse mobster who had experience with women extending over many nations and three separate continents. John would roll his eyes at their remarks which would only lead them to upping the number to four (the fourth continent being Antarctica). Bill Murray had caught word of John's rumoured BAMF status and wanted to bask in his glory.

John stopped when he came to an abandoned auto-mobile. They were reaching the outskirts of the city. He steered clear of the car and Bill followed suit.

"Never know what's in those abandoned cars." John said recalling stories of the Taliban loading sedans with explosives. They'd drive them into armoured cars, mostly targeting American troops. One explosion caused an American Suburban to be launched thirty feet from the blast site.

John mostly witnessed the aftermath of explosions. Charred bodies, missing limbs, mass amounts of blood loss. John was fairly numb to it. He'd get the occasional pang of hurt. He'd seen a good number of good men die but he'd carry on, shake the images from his head, and move on to the next patient.

"Want to turn back?" Bill asked as they reached the end of the clay-brick buildings. In front of them was an endless stretch of land that met the horizon. John tried to take it all in. The vastness of it, it was so barren and void. He missed the woods. Full of life and lush green. John was constantly surrounded by every shade of brown.

John let out a sigh. "Sure." He said turning on his heels. They returned to the market and made their way through the throng of people. The heat from an outdoor barbecue irradiated on John's face making his skin feel like it was blistering. He grimaced and looked up to see the afternoon sun beating down on them.

Bill unbuckled his chin strap. "Fuck I'm sorry sir, but I'm dying." He lifted his helmet and breathed a sigh of relief. Bill's hair was standing straight up and was dripping wet with sweat. John gave in and unbuckled his chin strap as well. He lifted his helmet off and a piece of metal fell out and on to the ground.

"Shit." John cursed. He bent over the same time as Bill and near smacked heads with him. Bill grabbed the cross and handed it to him.

"Celtic?"

"Mosaic." John said nestling the cross back in its proper place inside the forehead padding. He buried it deep so it wouldn't come loose for a while. He had forgotten he had put it in his helmet, it had been in there for years. He placed his helmet back on his head and Bill did the same. Bill checked his phone and groaned.

"Nothing." He shook his head. "What are we supposed to do for the next six hours?"

"Walk." John said plainly.

"I don't know about you, but I'm really not looking forward to sitting in the back of a lorry for twelve hours."

"That's why we're walking."

"What if it's hot as this? Sixty plus sweaty guys?"

"It won't be. We're travelling by night fall."

"It's going to be dark and creepy as hell."

"Have you ever been to the border?" John asked stopping near an open alleyway. He gave the alley a quick look before returning his focus to the crabby corporal.

"No." Bill said blowing a stream of air up his nose. John gave Bill a sympathetic look.

"It's nothing to be worked up about." John said with a reassuring grin.

"IEDs? Taliban ambushes? Those roads are a nightmare on meth." Bill swallowed heavy. "You seem pretty nervous yourself."

"You're mistaking nervousness for boredom."

"Is that why we're pacing back and forth?"

"I hate remaining in idle." John said wiping the sweat from his brow.

They started walking once more and reached a stretch of open-air shops with all sorts of trinkets and valuables for sale. Everything from wristwatches to boot-leg DVDs. Bill kept close to John as they swam through the sea of people in the marketplace. John couldn't help but think of how this would be a prime location for a mass shooting or a suicide bomber.

John was hit with the stench of fresh meat exposed to the blistering heat, flies bounced off his forehead as they entered a stretch of food stands with traditional Afghani fares. The smell of food intermingled with the strong stench of animal droppings.

John hated to see animals tortured, in small cages, decapitated on site. There was an overwhelming noise of clucking chickens and the panicked braying of goats. There were snakes and scorpions skewered on sticks as well as stuffed in wicker baskets. Wild hares were housed four or more to a cage, barely able to move an inch. An elderly woman in a burka held one out by its ears, it kicked and had its mouth opened in a silent scream. A man offered a price for the rabbit and she swiftly snapped its neck and started gutting it out in the open.

Bill looked at the scene in horror. John gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and they moved on.

"I thought Sainsbury was bad… day before Christmas… " Bill laughed to himself. "Could you imagine? Walk into the store to do your shopping, two pounds ground beef please, they go and shoot the bloody cow in front of you and start grinding it up? Hoof n all?" Bill shook his head. "Back-arsewards I tell you." Bill tapped John's shoulder. "Say, you marry my daughter, I throw this goat in free." John rolled his eyes. "You see this woman? She has big breasts, you marry her, she give you children, they good, good strong children. You buy it? Yes? You buy my daughter? I throw in second, no charge. Take them. I put them in bag? You buy it?" John held back a laugh not wanting to encourage him.

"I'm bound to start offering you up for sale if you don't quit." John snickered.

"Surprised they don't have humans in some of these cages."

"They aren't barbarians."

"Not exactly the friendliest sort either." Bill remarked as they passed a man that was looking at them in disgust.

"We've invaded _their_ country. Keep that in mind." John said looking over the cages of birds on display. He saw one in the corner of his eye that drew his attention. It stood out in a sea of brown. John's breath hitched. His heart felt like it stopped in his chest. He let out a small gasp.

_The bird._

He stepped closer to examine it. He couldn't believe his eyes. The little blue bird, with the orange belly, and the white streak above its eye. It looked at him curiously.

"I must have it." John said clutching the cage. "How much?" John looked over the cage for a price.

"You've got to barter for it." Bill said. "Sir-" He started.

"Ask." John commanded. Bill got the merchant's attention. The merchant looked over John with a furrowed brow.

"قيمت اين چند است؟" Bill asked. John looked around to see if there were any others. It was the only one.

_Just like the one in the snow._

The merchant clicked his tongue several times looking John over.

"پنج صد و هفتاد و پنج" The shop keeper said with a wave of his hand.

"Five seventy five." Bill relayed to John. John handed the cage to Bill and reached into his breast pocket for his wallet. John pulled out six purple one-hundred Afghani notes and handed them over to the merchant. He grabbed the cage and walked away. "Captain!" Bill shouted. He ran to catch up. "You forgot your change." He near whined. "You can't bring that back to the barracks." He said pointing at the bird. "What if it has the flu?" John kept walking faster. He turned down the winding streets and reached a clearing. He kept walking past the outskirts of the city.

Bill looked pained trying to keep up. He kept shouting at John to wait up. John kept walking further and further from the city and out into the open.

"Stop!" Bill shouted. "You don't know what's out there!" John stopped, kneeled on to the ground and opened the cage. The bird stayed put, unsure what John wanted him to do. John sat on his knees and watched as the bird cautiously hopped out of the cage. It gave a small chirp and continued to hop on the solid ground.

John began to worry it'd had its wings clipped. John looked at the little bird with sad eyes. It was just as beautiful as he remembered it. It was a stark contrast to the tan brown sand and dirt. It was positively beautiful. The bird stopped.

_I can't keep you. Nor should I._

"Go." John whispered. The bird burst into flight and John's heart jumped. He stood up to watch it as it flew off, far past the horizon.

John felt a sense of completion and fulfilment. Bill stood beside him and titled his head to one side.

"You… just paid seven quid… just to watch a bird fly away?"

"Yep." John said picking up the cage. He walked back in the direction of the city streets.

"Do you do that often?" Bill asked.

"Do what often?"

"That." Bill said waving his hand in the general direction of the sky.

"Well… I suppose it comes with the territory." John shrugged.

"What territory?"

"Of being a bad-arse." John smirked.

"How'd you get all those girls? I'm dying to know." Bill pleaded.

"Tell em you're gay, they'll be all over you within minutes." John suggested.

"You're not…" Bill started.

"Not what?" John stopped and turned to look at him.

"You know…"

"Know what?" John asked with a shrug.

"Gay?" Bill asked with a worried face.

"No." John smiled. "Of course not." Bill returned his smile and let out a sigh of relief.

_I'm most obviously a Holmosexual._


	48. Chapter 48

"Sherlock, I can't stay long, I'm just popping in to check on you."

Sherlock sat slumped in his chair, staring off into the distance, fixated on nothingness.

"Have you moved from that spot since I last saw you?" John shook his head. "Really Sherlock? The silent treatment?" Sherlock's head slowly fell backwards on to the back of his seat. "I don't have time for this." John put his hands on his hips. "Have you eaten? Come on Sherlock, you need to eat. I'm not your nanny." John groaned as he walked into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and shut it immediately. He opened it again.

"Is that a head?"

"Just tea for me, thanks." Sherlock mumbled.

"No, there's a head in the fridge."

"Yes." Sherlock said with a slow drawl.

"A bloody head!"

"Well where else was I supposed to put it? Got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the effect of ethylene on flesh decomposition."

John smacked his lips together. "That would explain the bananas." He couldn't help but crack a smile. "I completely forgot what I was doing."

"Lunch, with Mycroft." Sherlock said glaring at John. "The ring on your finger."

"Yeah, what of it?" John asked twisted the gold ring on his left ring finger.

"The one he gave you." Sherlock grumbled. "The only polishing it receives is when it's slid off your finger."

"Listen Sherlock, it's been over between us for near twenty years. Get over it."

Sherlock let out a huff.

"Do you have to sulk?" John asked while he searched the cabinets for edibles. Sherlock crossed his arms.

"Do you have to wear my father's ring?"

"Yes." John responded simply.

"He knows you don't wear it. I can't fathom why you keep up the charade."

"Believe it or not, he is delighted to see the stupid thing on my finger."

Sherlock leaned over and grabbed his violin and bow.

"No wonder you haven't eaten, there isn't a crumb of food that's fit for human consumption in this entire flat." John shook his head. "Would it kill you-"

"Yes."

"Sherlock." John whined. Sherlock raised his violin to his chin and John caught a glimpse of his hand. "Oh… you little…" John tried his best to hold back a smile and ended up grinning ear to ear. "Hypocrite." Sherlock pretended not to notice that he had his ring on as well. John rested his hands on the counter top and leaned in. "God, I was starting to worry you were going to give me the wrong sort of head for our anniversary."

"Anniversary." Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh don't start you big ol' lug." John chuckled. "Deep down, you're a softie at heart."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." Sherlock began to play a slow a somber tune, drawing the notes out slowly, and letting them hang suspended in the air. He played with a slight frown.

"You're pouting."

"Am not." Sherlock said with sad doe-eyes.

"Not yet, but you're about to." John pressed away from the counter and crossed his arms. "I'm not breaking off my lunch date with your brother." Sherlock pouted his bottom lip ever so slightly and gave John a pathetic look. "Twenty years." John shook his head. "Twenty years and you're still fourteen years old."

"You cannot call it our twentieth anniversary if we haven't actually been together, consecutively for twenty years." Sherlock sneered and started to saw at his violin. He stopped mid measure as he came to a realization. "And isn't it just convenient our anniversary falls the day before your birthday?" He narrowed his eyes in on John. "I am contractually obligated to shower you with love _and_ affection for two days in a row?" Sherlock clicked his tongue and resumed his playing.

John furrowed his brows and let out a hum. "Hm." He said. "You… don't remember do you?" Sherlock stopped once more and let his violin fall past his chin.

"Don't remember what?"

"You don't remember." John said with a smile.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "Well if I don't remember, I have no possible chance of guessing what you're inferring to, now do I?" Sherlock shook his head. "Honestly John." He nestled his violin under his chin once more.

"You don't remember _why_ our anniversary falls on the day before my birthday?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. He let the violin down gently and placed it by the side table. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, steepled his fingers, and brought them to his lips.

"For God's sake." John laughed to himself.

"No. No." Sherlock said raising one finger. "Give me time." Sherlock's eyes narrowed and shifted slightly as if he saw images laid out before him. "It's obviously something important, involving you and me, sentimental." Sherlock scoffed at the idea. "You're fixated on twenty years. Twenty years…" Sherlock hummed and pressed his fingers against his lips. He shook his head slightly at the ideas that popped into his head.

"You really have to think about this don't you?" John let out a sigh. "All right, I'll leave you to it. I'm going to be late."

"What does it matter? It is all so trivial." Sherlock placed his hands on the arms of his chair. "It is completely irrelevant. Must have deleted it long ago."

"You said that you could never forget; that the night was seared in your memory forever."

"Is it?" Sherlock cocked his eyebrow. "Hm." He smirked knowingly.

"You prick, you're just trying to get me all worked up." John checked his watch. "All right I'm officially late."

"Go on then." Sherlock said with a shrug. "You wouldn't want to keep the government waiting." John shifted uncertainly.

"You… do remember though… right?" John asked twisting his ring.

"What does it matter?"

"Matters to me." John mumbled pulling his sleeves down. He looked at the ground. "You really don't remember?" John asked pathetically.

"Oh God, John." Sherlock groaned. "Of course I remember." Sherlock threw his head back. "You won't let me _forget."_ He said rubbing his forehead.

Sherlock stood up suddenly and started playing out the story. "The music blaring, the lights flashing, the room spinning. Hormones running wild. A chance meeting. A fit of passion. The whole world seemed to stand still as you looked into my eyes." Sherlock stood toe to toe with John, looking down at him. "We met the night before your nineteenth birthday, but that isn't why you chose September 7th for our anniversary." Sherlock laced his fingers with John's. "A one in eight million chance meeting was one thing." Sherlock turned John's hand and ran his thumb over his father's gold ring. "But meeting by chance, once more, ten years later, on the exact same night… that is…"

"Fate?"

"Statistically improbable." Sherlock smirked.

_Destiny._

On that fateful night Captain John Watson found himself being dragged out of his hotel room by seven other officers that were determined to show him a good time the night before his twenty-ninth birthday.

John hadn't wanted to take leave but he was coerced into spending his two weeks of rest and recuperation with his so-called 'mates' in Oxford. John thought he had nowhere else to go and as long as they weren't going anywhere near London, he could stand spending some time exploring the university town. He was certain it had to be tame in comparison to Soho.

John quickly discovered, while there were no topless strip bars, there was an overwhelming amount of young women looking to hook up with soldiers. The men walked around dressed in their barrack dress uniforms like they were God's gift to earth. John looked sharp in his regimental grey and green v-neck, but he mostly kept his head down, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

The men purposefully left their berets with the red and white feather hackles at the hotel. They already strutted around like roosters; they didn't need to look like them as well. The bar was packed with university students.

_It's Tuesday, what would a bunch of students be doing out on a bloody Tuesday?_

John noticed there was a disproportionate amount of females hanging around the bar, playing pool, chatting it up on the side-lines.

"Ladies night." One of his friends said raising his eyebrows suggestively. John groaned on the inside.

_Of course._

"Back to school." He hummed. "Young heiresses, looking to blow daddy's money on top shelf liquor, wanting to show their bad girl side. Been cooped up in their manors _so_ long…" He tutted. "Crying shame, locking up pussy that fine."

John grimaced at the word 'pussy'. He'd heard it countless times during his service but it always seemed to make him uneasy. The men had a way of dehumanizing women that made John sick to his stomach. They treated them like trophies. Those that were successful with women always hooked up with the ones that were desperate and never the ones that had any depth, character, or true beauty.

John attracted women like moths to a flame. He treated them with respect and stood out from his animalistic counterparts. They'd write their phone numbers on the back of his hand, on bar napkins, or in his phone's contacts. John never gave them a call but he wasn't rude enough to tell them to piss off either.

His mates were in awe of his abilities. They assumed that because he wasn't willing to share their numbers, that he was hogging all the women for himself. John would stuff the bar napkins in his pockets and cover up the back of his hand out of decency towards the women. He wouldn't want some strange guy calling him because a bloke he was hitting on gave out his number.

A pint of draft beer was shoved into John's hand by one of his company's senior officers, Major Pike. His group disbanded and started prowling the scene for young prey. John remained close to the exit, debating whether or not he should slip out and go back to the hotel. He nursed his beer and looked around the bar.

The establishment had a World War II charm with its dark hardwood floors and forest green upholstery. The addition of soldiers trying to use their fresh from war status to charm young ladies into their hotel rooms was only adding to the effect. John felt transported to another era. An era he didn't fit in to.

He didn't want ladies hanging off his arm, listening to his war stories, trying to get into his trousers. He noticed one of his unit's members getting familiar with a rather hefty young lady. He was convinced the man would have gotten with anyone that gave him a second look.

Off he went with the woman, past the front door, and out into the night.

_You know… women can be serial killers too._

John found himself at the end of his beer wondering how he'd sucked it down so quickly. He was suddenly being beckoned over by his buddies to take shots. John let out a small sigh and strolled up to the bar.

They all acted amiable to him as he took the shot glass in his hand. He knew he'd walked into a trap immediately after seeing the girls hovering next to them.

"Captain John Watson ladies." His friend informed them giving John a pat on the back. "The birthday boy." John swallowed the shot in two gulps and placed the glass back on the bar. He nodded at the two girls that seemed to be swooning over him. He tried not to shake his head at their foolishness.

_They act like they've never seen a man in uniform._

John downed two more shots before he started feeling the effects of the alcohol. He wasn't a heavy drinker and a bit of a light weight but his attitude didn't change much when he drank. He was less coordinated but still highly withdrawn. He made a small and feeble attempt at scanning the bar for someone attractive to perhaps pursue, exchange digits, maybe feel-up in the car-park.

He had little interest in men, even less in women. No one seemed to make his heart flutter or make him burn with desire. He was a cold fish and being called Three Continents Watson (TCW for short) wasn't helping his ego one bit. If anything it made him more depressed. The name couldn't be any further from the truth.

He wasn't purposely being celibate. He wanted a relationship, desperately, but he hadn't found the right someone. He quite possibly had the time to find someone. He just chose to occupy his time with anti-social activities that weren't conducive to finding a life-partner.

John took another shot and started feeling his feet move without him. He stumbled back.

_All right, I'm cut off._

His head was clear and his mind was sharp but he couldn't steer his body properly and he started to feel that the room had a slight tilt to it.

_I am officially sloshed. No more for me. I should head back to the hotel room._

He could hear his buddies laughing it up. He sauntered off away from his group.

_God, I can remember every bone in the human body right now but I cannot walk a straight line. What a weird state of being. I could drive a car in this condition. Not well… but I could drive one… If I had a license. I am 'car driving drunk'. Not that I would drive a car… I am intoxicated after all._

John found himself on the other side of the establishment, near the windows where there were small tables with seating for two. He plopped down in a chair.

_Nah, I shouldn't drive, that's a bad idea._

John hiccuped and scanned the scene once more.

_Pussy. God… why do they have to be such pigs? Women are more than what's between their legs._

John laughed slightly to himself.

_And what's between their legs isn't much to go on about._

John wiped the corners of his mouth. He was impressed with the amount of females present on ladies night. Usually advertised ladies nights drew in large crowds of sexually deprived men looking for a quick hook-up.

John thought his group was too old to be prowling a university bar but the young women didn't seem to mind. Perhaps they found the soldiers more distinguished and mature. John didn't find any members of his group that alluring. They were mostly run of the mill blokes, five nine, eighty kilos, brown hair, brown eyes. They weren't anything special to look at.

John was having a hard time finding a male who was attractive enough for him. He held his standards high which was part of the reason he found it difficult to find a guy worth his time and effort.

_He doesn't have to be GQ quality… all right… perhaps he does._

He debated lowering his standards, perhaps looking for a guy with a good personality but nobody fit the bill. He felt incredibly shallow at times but abstaining from heart-break sounded like a good idea to him.

Major Pike spotted John sitting alone and brought over another shot of tequila. John knocked it back and returned the shot glass to him.

"You've got the thousand yard stare." He patted John on the shoulder. "Look a bit shell-shocked." John grunted a response. "When's the last time you had any?" He asked taking the seat across from John. John looked at him puzzled.

"Had any what?"

"Tail."

"Mm." John hummed and stretched his arms, resting them behind his chair's back. "You don't want to know."

"What? A week? Two?" John shook his head. "Month?" Pike asked with a slight amount of shock.

"Years." John said with a slur. Pike's jaw went slack. "Haven't been with a bl… blird…" John stammered. He shook his head to clear his mind. "Sorry." He hiccuped. "Haven't been that way with a girl in ages."

_Not a complete lie._

"How the hell do you not have chronic tennis elbow?"

John chuckled and shook his head. "Hey, I still… dabble I suppose." He let out a sigh.

"You… um…" Pike coughed slightly. "Ever dabbled for the other side?"

_Holy shit, this is either a come on or he's going to beat the living shit out of me._

John just stared at his fellow officer. His brain failing to make connections.

"Have you?" John finally sputtered.

"I asked first." Pike splayed his hand out on the table top. John looked at the slight smirk that tugged at the corner of the man's mouth. John swallowed hard. He hadn't been remotely intimate in quite some time. He felt his gut drop and twist into knots. He felt more scared than aroused. It reminded him of his first time.

It was always like this with men now. Nerves and jitters instead of arousal and passion. John looked down at Major Pike's hand. He wasn't all together bad looking, but he knew anything that happened between them wouldn't be long lasting. Perhaps that's what John wanted… perhaps not.

"I-" John started. By chance he noticed the front door open. He only managed to see it out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't sure why it had caught his attention but he found himself turning to see the person walking through the door.

John's jaw dropped, his heart raced, his palms began to sweat. He couldn't believe his eyes. He didn't. It was impossible.

He stood up suddenly and banged his knee into the table.

"Captain!" Pike shouted as his drink fell over. John didn't care. He didn't give a damn about anything else in the world but who was standing in the doorway.

The man, and he was quite a man, was scanning the bar with his all-knowing eyes. He had on a Belstaff coat with a blue scarf tied around his neck. He was tall, ridiculously tall, with dark slightly curly hair. His pale skin seemed to glow in the dim lighting. He looked over toward John, briefly; then turned away.

Like that, he was gone. He had left the bar as quickly as he had entered. John was in shock. Had he imagined it?

"Who was that guy?" Pike asked looking over John with concern.

"Excuse me." John said with his eyes fixed on the door. He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, through the crowd of people, and out the front door, into the cold night air.

He looked around to see the streets were empty. John ran his hands through his hair. He felt tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

_I've missed my chance._

"I see you've been busy."

John near jumped out of his skin. The man's low baritone voice seemed to rumble the very ground he was standing on. John turned to see the man was standing right behind him, leaning against the wall. He looked John over, coldly.

"A Major." He hummed. "Your company commander. You must be his second in command." He stepped forward from the wall and held his hands behind his back. "A doctor… an army doctor… you've done well for yourself." He approached John and looked straight into his eyes. "Back from Afghanistan are we? Second deployment? No. No. _First_."

John stood up straight and puffed up his chest a bit, feeling small in comparison. The man circled him like a shark, getting a good look at him from every angle.

"Sorry I interrupted your pursuit. I only popped in to have a drink."

"Well… it is… ladies night after all." John hiccuped. The man stopped dead in his tracks, near tripping over his shoes.

"What?" He asked incredulously.

"I meant-"

"I know what you meant." He said waving his hand in the air dismissively. "After all these years John Watson…" He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh. "No, no. It's fine." John fought back a smile.

"You thought I was trying to get down with my company commander?" The man blushed and looked away. "Sherlock, you are an idiot."

"You weren't?" Sherlock asked bashfully.

"Nope." John said with a pop. He smiled brightly at his old friend. Sherlock grimaced.

"How's Afghanistan?"

"Shit."

"I figured." Sherlock said with a sigh.

"You seeing anyone?" Sherlock merely shrugged. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That I'm shamefully afraid that I am utterly… and hopelessly…" Sherlock looked up at the sky and John caught a hint of tears in his eyes. "Single."

"And… that's a bad thing?" John asked, cocking his eyebrow.

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted. He groaned incessantly and started pacing. "Don't you see?"

"Erm." John said looking around.

"Good God John, all those years of higher education and you haven't an iota of reasoning in your over-sized head?"

"Over-sized?" John asked.

"I didn't mean it as an insult."

"Sure sounded like one." John mumbled.

Sherlock closed his eyes and plainly said. "No."

"No, what?"

"I will not put myself through that. Not again."

"Put yourself through-" John started.

"Sex John!" Sherlock shouted, his voice echoing through the empty streets. "I'd throw myself at you in a fit of passion, we'd go back to your shanty little hotel room, we'd have frantic and fervent intercourse, then you'd be back off to war in a week's time."

"How'd-"

"You're obviously on leave."

"Obviously…"

"You would never come as far as Oxford without being forced into hetero-normativity by a gang of sexually deprived commanding officers looking to bait wealthy young women into spending the night with them to show that they're no longer daddy's little angel."

"What-"

"It doesn't matter John! You'll be back in Afghanistan, and sure, you'd write perhaps once maybe twice, possibly pick up the phone, give us a ring, but honestly John, would you really wait around for me _that_ long? Through another two, perhaps three deployments?"

"I've lasted ten years." John said with a shrug.

"Have you?" Sherlock asked with a furrowed brow.

"Had a few encounters." John sighed. "Never got anywhere… pissed off a few blokes in the process."

"Few girls as well." Sherlock added.

"Yeah well…" John grinned. "What are you gonna do?" He chuckled.

"Ponce."

"Yep." John said stretching his arms behind his back. "That's what they call me. BAMF Watson. Three continents, four if you count Antarctica. Don't know how I managed to find me some there… but you know… suppose I could find some anywhere." John said with a chuckle.

"The ladies must love you."

"Oh I have loads of numbers. My little black book is as thick as the phone book. They've been lining up round the block, looking to have a go at me." John let his arms swing down at his sides. "How about you?"

"Hm?" Sherlock asked looking off into space. "Oh yes." He hummed. "Same problem… only with men." John felt a slight pang of hurt.

"Really?"

Sherlock looked at him seriously.

"Any… that you… you know…" John stuttered. Sherlock looked at him blankly. "Which is fine, by the way"

"I know it's fine." Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows.

"I'm just saying, it's _all_ fine."

"Good. Thank you." An awkward silence fell upon them.

"So did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Sherlock!" John whined.

"Oh of course I didn't." Sherlock groaned. "Just like you… couldn't manage to…" Sherlock pursed his lips and grimaced slightly. "Get it up."

"Who says I couldn't get it up?"

"You did."

"Did I?"

"Your face did."

"How did my face-"

"Listen, it doesn't matter." Sherlock said waving the thought away. "What does matter is we leave here, emotions intact and on equal terms." Sherlock extended his hand and John grasped it awkwardly. "Good seeing you again Dr. Watson. I hope one day, we'll meet again."

John was quick to pull Sherlock down to his level and crush their lips together. He ran his hands through Sherlock's hair and began to groan indignantly. It'd been far too long. He pushed Sherlock backwards, pinning him against the wall. He pressed his body hard against Sherlock's thin frame and began rutting up against him.

John pulled away suddenly. He rubbed his lips with his sleeve and turned away. Sherlock was left in shock, his breathing was ragged, his scarf disheveled, his cheeks flush. He had his hands pressed against the wall, his knees were buckled, and he looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Erm." He muttered.

"It was good seeing you again Sherlock." John said walking away. "Like you said, hope we meet again someday." Sherlock pressed away from the wall and hurriedly caught up with John.

"You know… we could-"

"No, no. You said." John teased. He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and continued walking away.

"Well I was… I was just being factious." Sherlock said with a gulp. "I mean… of course we could-"

"Nah, you're right. I'll be off to Afghanistan in six days." John hummed. "I'll just forget all about you overseas."

"But you… I… we've…" Sherlock stammered.

"Waited? For years?" John stopped and turned to Sherlock. "You didn't have to."

"Neither did you." Sherlock retorted.

"It's not like I didn't want to be with someone."

"Likewise." Sherlock said simply. "How far is your hotel room?"

"Too far." John said grabbing Sherlock's hand.

"I have accommodations close to the university." John felt his heart flutter, he suddenly felt shy and slightly nervous holding Sherlock's hand. He should have been throwing him against a wall, taking him forcefully in a back alley. Instead they walked hand in hand to the university-owned graduate housing.

John found it hard to look at Sherlock without blushing. He was absolutely gorgeous. Sherlock started to chuckle. It was the same low throaty laugh he had as a teenager. John's face blushed so much he was red around the ears.

"Holding hands?" Sherlock asked with a grin. John glanced at Sherlock briefly then returned his gaze to the pavement in front of them. He couldn't help but smile. Sherlock looked up at the sky. "Beautiful, isn't it?" John looked up at Sherlock. "Sod." He laughed.

"What?" John asked nonchalantly.

"The sky, not me."

John looked up at the brilliant night's sky littered with millions of stars. "It's all right." Sherlock squeezed his hand. "I'm expecting to wake up any time now."

"It is quite unbelievable that we would run into each other… after all these years. In a city far from home."

"Yeah… I miss Baker Street."

"We'll have time to reminisce when we're four thousand miles away. I want to be in the now. With you. Here." Sherlock's voice was tantalizingly alluring. John felt a dull ache in his groin that caused him to walk off pattern. His mind filled with a million dirty thoughts. He felt light headed.

"Are we almost there?" John looked around at the old brick buildings intermixed with the new architecture. It was fairly run-down, not at all what came to mind when he thought of the illustrious Oxford University.

"Here we are." Sherlock said pointing up to a first story window that was slightly ajar. "So, I'll stand on the parked car, lift you up, and you'll slide through the open window. Then you'll come downstairs and let me in. Savvy?"

"There's a CCTV camera right there." John said with concern.

"Oh, think nothing of it. The night guard is shagging the custodial worker; don't worry your pretty little head."

"I thought my head was grotesquely over-sized." John laughed nervously. "Oh well, might as well start our ascent." He said with a sigh. He got ready to jump on to the parked sedan when Sherlock pulled out a set of keys.

"Could always just use the front door."

"God, I hate you." John said moving away from the car. "You really had me going, you know?"

"Of course." Sherlock chuckled. "I'm glad you weren't completely opposed to the idea of breaking into a first storey window just for a shag." John rolled his eyes. Sherlock crammed the key into the dead bolt and gave it a hard turn, he slammed his shoulder into the door, and grimaced. "Hm, you still think you could manage the climb?"

"Oh, let us have a try." John took the key from Sherlock and jiggled the lock, he threw his shoulder into the door and it swung open. Sherlock looked down at him with admiration. "See, was that so hard?" The fluorescent light flickered and buzzed above head to partially illuminate a disturbingly damp stairwell. John pursed his lips and nodded his head. Sherlock started walking up the stairs.

"You coming?" He asked turning back. John chased him up the stairs without giving the lodgings a second thought. They burst through the door at the top of the steps and into a narrow hallway lined with doors. Sherlock stopped at the third one in and put his key in the lock. "Welcome to my humble abode." He said turning the handle and opening the door for John.

John stood in the doorway a moment, hesitating to enter the eerily familiar room.

"By God…" John said in shock.

"Don't get too caught up with the furnishings." Sherlock said throwing a textbook off his bed and on to the floor. John looked at the iron barred bed Sherlock was sitting on.

_The one that looked like it came from a Romanian orphanage._

There was a small desk in the corner of the room. An old beat-up cupboard. John was having vivid flashbacks of Sherlock's old room, and of the night at the club.

"Ten years…" John said holding his hands to his mouth. "Ten bloody years, to this fucking day." John's eyes burned with tears.

"I knew this was a terrible idea. You're having post traumatic stress!" Sherlock stood up and grabbed John by the shoulders. John's tears fell freely for the first time in ages. His chest heaved uncontrollably. He felt eighteen again, confused, alone, and scared.

But when he looked into Sherlock's eyes, those wild green-blue eyes that shone in the moonlight like a beacon of hope in the darkness, he knew he was not alone. He could see Sherlock's kind heart in his eyes, his pain and suffering, they weren't just a window to his soul, they were a window to a whole new world. One that John so desperately wanted to be a part of for so long.

John threw himself at Sherlock, knocking them both over and on to the small bed.

"Sherlock, I love you. I've loved you since the moment we met. And I know… it's creepy and weird and I don't even know-" Sherlock put a finger to John's lips.

"Sh." He hushed. "I know."

"I was so lost Sherlock." John cried into Sherlock's shoulder.

"I know."

"For Christ's sake Sherlock!" John said pressing up, a tear dripped from his nose on to Sherlock's coat.

"What?"

"Tell me something you don't know." He laughed.

"H-how… do I do that?" Sherlock asked confused.

"Kiss me you idiot." John chuckled pressing their lips together. "I would have you, right here on this bed, until you begged for mercy twice."

"I've never begged for mercy in my life."

" _Twice."_

"But?"

"But what?" John asked running his hands down Sherlock's coat.

"Would?"

"Would? Did I say would? Think I meant will." John teased.

"Ah." Sherlock said shifting slightly. "By God John, have you put on weight?"

"Wait, what?" John asked looking down at himself. "What a terribly… unromantic thing to say."

"Well I was never one for romance…" Sherlock said with a long drawl.

"No you weren't." John said thinking to himself. "You were more the… rub your genitals against someone until one of you screamed types."

"Well I've changed. I'm more mature now. In fact I've suppressed all of my sexual urges. I no longer need to rub up against someone until I scream, as you so delicately put it." John's hand darted down to Sherlock's crotch and cupped him in his hand. "Oh, God." He groaned.

"You've suppressed all your sexual urges?" Sherlock nodded, biting his bottom lip. "Yeah, we'll see about that." He helped Sherlock out of his coat as Sherlock ripped off his scarf. John threw the coat on to the floor.

"There _is_ a hook on the back of the door." Sherlock said with a frown.

"I'm sure there is." John straddled Sherlock and started nuzzling at his neck.

"I meant for you to-"

"I know what you meant." John caught Sherlock's lips with his own. Sherlock began mumbling something indiscernible. John undid Sherlock's zip and started fondling him through his pants. Sherlock let out a content sigh mixed with a loud groan. Sherlock grasped both sides of John's face and kissed him avidly, claiming his mouth with his own.

John removed his hand from Sherlock's bulge and placed it beside Sherlock's head. Sherlock broke the kiss. "You stopped." He whined.

"We're kissing." John said flustered.

"So?" Sherlock looked at John for a moment before rolling his eyes. "Honestly John, can't you multi-task?"

"Suppose." John said sliding his hand down Sherlock's abdomen, under his pant's waistband, and straight to his growing erection. "Better?"

"Mhmm." Sherlock said with a high pitched squeak. John started giggling. "John… for God's sake you can't giggle, we're in the throes of passionate love making."

"Sorry." John held back his laughter unsuccessfully and ended up snorting slightly.

"Unromantic." Sherlock scoffed. John reclaimed his lips with his own and started stroking Sherlock more rhythmically. John's mind seemed flood with endorphins as his body started becoming a chemical warfare.

He was full of painful desire that pulsated through him in strong waves. John quickly dismounted and started fumbling with his own trouser's latch and zip. He slid his trousers half-way down his hips and stumbled to get his shoes off.

Sherlock shifted to lie more squarely on the bed, he watched John with amusement. John managed to get his trousers off without killing himself, a small accomplishment with his slight buzz.

"Well?" John asked standing in the middle of the room half naked.

"Well what?"

John lolled his head to one side. He tongued the back of his cheek, then smacked his lips. "Sex?" He asked throwing his hands into the air.

"Oh, well… I thought you were putting on a show." Sherlock said sliding down his trousers and underwear to release his half hard-on.

John shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "This is the problem with your lover and best friend being one in the same."

"Can we hold your insight for another time when I'm not half exposed? It's freezing in here. I could use a bit of heatagainst me." Sherlock reached out a hand, placing it on the small of John's back, guiding him forwards.

John remounted Sherlock, barely able to stay on the small bed.

"How the hell did we do this all those years ago?"

"We were highly inebriated." Sherlock thought to himself. "Should we replicate the conditions? Could make this easier." He said into the air. John rolled his hips forward and Sherlock moaned. "Or you could just do that." He grasped John's hips and guided him gently to create friction between them. Sherlock closed his eyes and started to hum. John recognized the tune.

"God save the queen?" John asked with a laugh.

"Shut up, I'm… unh…" He grunted.

"Holding back?" John offered. Sherlock bit his bottom lip and let out a whimper as he nodded. John leaned down and kissed him softly. Sherlock jerked involuntarily.

"It has been far too long." Sherlock said grimacing.

"I know."

"Do you need… erm… preparations?"

"Nah, think I can manage." John said nervously.

"I would strongly ahh-dvise…" Sherlock was broken off mid sentence by John lowering himself none too gently onto his cock. John let out a high pitched gasp. He made an odd face somewhere between a grimace and a snarl. "You all right?" Sherlock asked with his eyes clamped shut.

"Y-yeah." John said breathlessly. He was clenching tight around Sherlock's cock, Sherlock's toes were curled and his breathing had gone ragged while John could hardly breathe at all. "Been… a while." John's face relaxed slightly as he hissed out a few shallow breaths.

"Mhmm." Sherlock said trying his best to remain motionless. John squinted one eye and pursed his lips.

"Not at all like I remembered." John said conversationally. Sherlock had been reduced to a whimpering mess underneath him. "That good eh?" Sherlock nodded, his forehead was drenched in sweat. John could almost hear the gears turning in Sherlock's head, trying to think of anything to calm himself down. His hands were starting to shake on John's hips, his face was turning a dark shade of purple. "For God's sake, breathe!" John shouted. Sherlock let out a heavy breath and his eyes shot open.

"Oh, God this is fucking amazing I never want it to end." Sherlock blurted out. He panted heavily and looked up at John.

"Might make for awkward conversations… you know at parties… you being super-glued to my arse."

"Don't be funny John, funny doesn't suit you." Sherlock whined as he breathed through his nose. "Now shut up and fuck me." Sherlock said throwing his head back on the pillow. His eyes batted rapidly. John could see his eyes were glazed over from the slight asphyxiation.

"God, you're such a pain in my arse… literally." John cut Sherlock off, before he could combat him with a witty response, by rocking his hips forward. A shot of unbridled pleasure ran its way up John's spine. It was an odd feeling, it felt like he was being stabbed only it was pleasant, a pleasant stabbing. John's thighs were shaking from the sensation.

Sherlock clutched on to John's hips tightly, not wanting to let go. John picked up pace, fast feeling the point approaching, the point where it would feel like too much, like he couldn't go any further. Past that point was ecstasy in its purest form.

It was better than an orgasm, it lasted much longer, and had such a profound effect on his mind. John could feel it rising in his gut and going straight to his brain. He threw his head back. He was positively high on the feeling. His senses had been fucked out of him. It was too amazing.

Then he was brought somewhere else when Sherlock bucked his hips up. John clenched tightly on to Sherlock's shoulders. He was suddenly in a hyper-reality where all of his senses where heightened to a new level of 'holy God, oh fuck me, yes oh yes, please God'.

Sherlock was stimulating all the right nerves, hitting him in just the right place. John was making all sorts of wild sounds, a gurgling growl, a moaning purr, gasping grunts. All his feelings rushed to his cock that was aching with need. It pulsated and throbbed.

John's temples started pounding; he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. It thudded loudly; then it started pounding so hard he felt it was going to jump right out of his chest. His eyes were open but the world was a blur. Sounds smelled like colors and visions tasted like words. He was out of this world and out of his mind.

John felt a tension building, his muscles started to go rigid, he felt like he was being lifted up ever higher. His fingers clenched tighter on Sherlock's shoulders. He couldn't control himself any longer. His moans turned to screams. The tension was starting to sting. He felt like his heart was going to give out it was racing so fast.

Then like a flash he came. He felt the climax stop prematurely. He was wildly confused, but Sherlock continued to thrust into him, alternating between slow deliberate pumping and the occasional jab. John met his thrusts, aggravated by his pathetic orgasm, wanting to bring himself back to euphoria. Only to find himself panting and moaning once more, the fire building in his groin.

He was near sent into a shock as a second orgasm ripped through him, this time much more violent, but still not satisfying enough.

_This is unbelievable._

He tried to ride it out longer, not sure if he could bring himself there again. He came a third time and he was done, completely spent. He would have fallen over if Sherlock hadn't been holding him upright, still thrusting away. He thought it was impossible, unheard of, unloading three times. He was beside himself in pleasure. He was having an out of body experience.

Then he was brought back to earth by the sounds of Sherlock growling. He was thrusting desperately. John saw it in Sherlock's face that he was losing his battle and resolve to hold back. John fell forward and brought their lips together in a fervent and passionate kiss.

Sherlock lost.

He jerked once and stabbed John hard. John felt Sherlock's cock twitch inside him. Sherlock groaned loudly, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, his lip snarled; then his face went blank. All of his muscles loosened at once and he seemed to sink into the bed. John lay on top of Sherlock for what seemed like ages.

He slowly rose up and down with Sherlock's slow breaths. His eyes started to become heavy. He was well spent. Absolutely knackered. He started to doze off.

Sherlock mumbled something, causing John to stir. He opened his eyes slightly. "Hm?" He hummed.

"I have to pee." Sherlock murmured. John growled on top of Sherlock's chest. "Move." Sherlock said pushing John away. He slid off Sherlock's cock, wincing as it dislodged completely, leaving him empty once more.

"You serious?" John whined. "Just had… the best sex of my life…" John complained, placing his bare feet on the cold hardwood floor. His knees shook and he shivered as his skin became coated with goose pimples. Sherlock moaned as he got up and stretched his back. He did up his zip and looked down at his shirt.

"Westwood." He grumbled trying to wipe the come off his shirt's front. John fell forward, face first, on to the bed. His legs hanged off the edge. He pressed his face against the comforter and let out a heavy sigh.

"Promise you'll come back?" John asked shutting his eyes gently.

"No, I thought I'd run off into the night with a come stained shirt." He said rolling his eyes. "Of course I'll be back."

"You didn't come back the first time."

"The bed was too small to share."

"It's the same bed." John said opening his eyes. He pressed up on to his elbows.

"Yes well-"

"And you're twice as big now."

"Not precisely-"

"Just promise me you won't leave me." John said reaching out his hand. Sherlock grasped it firmly.

"For God's sake… I'm not going anywhere." He said with a heavy sigh. "It's my room anyhow." He grumbled as he left the room. John sat up on the bed. He placed his hands on his lap and waited anxiously for Sherlock's return. After a few minutes, he turned and pressed his back against the headboard.

He started to nod off. He took a look at the alarm clock on Sherlock's desk.

_12:30._

John smiled to himself.

_Happy Birthday me._


	49. Chapter 49

They spent their nights together in the tiny accommodations, though John often protested that their time would be better spent in his hotel room in a full sized bed. It wasn't that he didn't love sharing a bed with Sherlock, but the twin sized mattress was too small for the army doctor and the behemoth sleep moaner.

Every morning John would wake up with one of Sherlock's long legs draped possessively over him. He'd clutch on to John for dear life in his sleep, which combined with his loud groans, made sleep far from blissful for John.

The days passed by too quickly. John refused to spend a moment of his time away from Sherlock. John even threw himself into Sherlock's grooming routine, much to Sherlock's despise. He didn't see the purpose in showering together, though he did take the time to explore every inch of John's body with his finger tips.

He was absolutely fascinated with John's scar. He'd often have John regale him with the accounts of the incident over and over again.

"How did it feel?" Sherlock asked pressing his fingers gently against the entry wound's scar.

"It didn't… at least not at first. Then it felt like it was burning hotter than hell." John lathered up Sherlock's chest, hoping he would forget about his imperfections and stop poking and prodding at his flawed body. He looked over Sherlock in awe; he was perfect in every sense. John felt self conscious in Sherlock's shadow.

John pressed his face to Sherlock's chest and closed the gap between them. He let out a content sigh. The back of mind kept nagging him that they only had a short time together. He owed the army six years including six more months of his deployment. It pained him to think he'd be back in Afghanistan and away from Sherlock again.

John's heart would race in a panic when he felt they weren't using their time to its full extent. He'd lunge at Sherlock and draw him into a lip crushing kiss to reaffirm his existence. If this was a dream, John never wanted to wake from it.

Sherlock found John's clingy behavior rather annoying and would shrug him off when he felt awkward. It didn't help that he had clients booked the entire week.

"Clients?" John had asked several times what Sherlock meant by 'clients' while they were straightening up the room.

"Yes." Sherlock would respond each time. John feared the worst.

_Prostitute._

John soon found that Sherlock was running a private eye business out of his hovel.

"No, no, John. Not private eye… I am a _consulting detective."_ John stared at him blankly. "I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee."

"But… you solve mysteries… crimes?"

Sherlock let out a berated sigh. "My abilities far exceed those of a private investigator." John picked up a case file.

"Like this one?" He teased with a grin. Sherlock snatched the file out of his hands.

"Everyone has to start somewhere." Sherlock said with a scowl.

"A missing bunny rabbit?"

"Locked hutch, no signs of forced entry."

"Mummy sent it to a farm in the country side?"

"No, she snapped its furry little neck and made it into stew."

"Lovely." John chucked. "Bet the little girl was chuffed to bits to learn her mum lied to her."

"Oh no, she was quite devastated, having been inadvertently fed her pet rabbit for supper."

"Sarcasm isn't your forte is it, Sherlock?" John laughed heartily.

Sherlock had a wide array of clients from bank managers to desperate house wives. Sherlock was brutally honest with them and they were generous with their pocket books. Sherlock had found his niche.

John was taken aback when he discovered that Sherlock completed his undergraduate in business and was looking to further his education in law and finances.

"What happened to chemistry? Science?" John asked astonished.

"Why would I study what I already know?" Sherlock was meticulously filing down his finger nails while he waited for the iron to heat up. John shook his head.

_You think you know a guy._

"But business of all things." John said into the air. "Was this Mycroft's doing?" John hadn't once mentioned his ex-boyfriend the entire visit and now that the name came up John had a sour taste in his mouth. His heart panged with guilt for what he had done to the man. He desperately wanted to ask Sherlock how he was doing, what he had been up to for the past decade.

"It was no one's doing but my own, John." Sherlock blew on the nail file and resumed attacking his toes. "I am determined to work on cases that have more weight, ones that pose a _real_ challenge. I'm never going to make something of myself if I'm not able to present myself professionally."

John tilted his head to one side and looked at Sherlock like a confused puppy. "So… insulting you clients is proper business etiquette?"

"My tactics are none of your concern." Sherlock looked up at him. "And where are you going to be in ten years? Invalid? Retired? Struggling to make ends meet?" Sherlock returned to his vicious grooming regiment. John let out a sigh.

"I was hoping to be with you." John said with sad eyes.

"Gold digger." Sherlock jeered.

"Oh yes!" John shouted throwing his arms into the air, pointing to the surroundings. "I'm just after you for your massive wealth and spectacular business plan." John finally blurted out what had been eating at him for ages. "Sherlock, where is all that money?"

"What money?" Sherlock asked oblivious, his gaze never venturing from his small toe.

"Um… _the_ money. You know? The money I got shot over?" John clenched his fists.

"Hm." Sherlock hummed. He cleared his throat. "It's gone."

"Gone?" John felt a cold shock run through him. "How is nine million Euros… gone?"

"Mycroft found my hiding spot." Sherlock shrugged. "Must have been real desperate, rooting around there."

"Round where?" John asked taking the seat next to Sherlock on the bed. Sherlock immediately stood up, walked over to the ironing board, and started neurotically ironing out every imperfection in his collared shirt.

"Mrs. Hudson's knickers drawer of course."

"The safest place in the world?" John asked half amused, half blown away by Sherlock's ridiculous hiding spot. "It never crossed anyone's mind did it?"

"It is the most unassuming place, among an elderly woman's brassieres and bloomers."

"Is that why you were hell bent on her remaining single?"

"Oh heavens no, her choice in men is ghastly. It was merely coincidence that I was defending both Mrs. Hudson and the money."

"What was Mycroft doing going through Mrs. Hudson's panties?"

"Lord only knows what goes on in my dear brother's mind."

John shook his head and grinned.

"You missed him as well." Sherlock said with a slight hint of hurt in his voice.

"Not as much as you." John sighed and sprawled out on the bed.

"If you would have run into him at that bar…" Sherlock choked slightly and went silent.

"But I didn't." John sat up and looked towards Sherlock. "I know you don't believe in fate… and who knows… but that's not how things happened." John stood up and walked over to Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around him in a reverse hug. "All I know is: I'm not going back." He placed a kiss on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock furrowed his brows and stared at his shirt on the ironing board. He pursed his lips and John could almost hear him thinking. He lifted the iron and turned it off.

"Love you." Sherlock half coughed, half mumbled. John drew him in closer and swayed his hips to imaginary music. "I'm not entirely comforted by the fact that things would have turned out differently if you ran into him instead of me."

"Would you have preferred a blatant lie?"

"Yes." Sherlock said with a gulp.

"Oh Sherlock." John sighed and turned him around, resuming their embrace. He pressed his cheek against Sherlock's chest. "It was always you." Sherlock looked down at the top of John's head.

"Hold on… was that a blatant lie?" Sherlock asked pushing him back by his shoulders.

"You tell me." John laughed. Sherlock searched his eyes.

"I don't need your pity." He said releasing John's arms.

"Yes you do." John chuckled grabbing him once more. He growled and squeezed Sherlock close, taking in his scent. "Mm, you are sex on two legs."

"I'm glad that's all I am to you." Sherlock said with a false hint of hurt. He sniffled slightly.

"Michelangelo's David would be jealous of you."

"I'm a piece of art then?" Sherlock asked as John started walking him back to the bed.

"No… you're cold and made of stone." Sherlock flopped down on to the bed face first and let out an aggravated sigh. John ran his hand down his spine. "What's the matter?"

"Forty-eight hours." Sherlock mumbled into the pillow. John was struck with panic at how little time he had left. He climbed on to the bed and laid himself down on Sherlock's back. Sherlock let out a heavy breath. John slid his hands under Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him tight. "Don't leave." Sherlock pleaded.

"And be a deserter?"

"Please."

"I can't."

"I said please." Sherlock pouted.

"It can't get me out of my commitment. I owe the army. They paid for all my training." John squeezed him tight. "You'll see, six years will fly by just like that."

"Every day without you is its own private hell." Sherlock whined.

"You're trying to guilt trip me." John smiled and pressed his lips against the nape of Sherlock's neck. "The barracks has wifi, we'll still be in touch. It won't be anything like the past decade."

_It will be far worse._

Their last hours were spent wrapped in each other's arms, neither willing to let go first. When John's ride finally arrived to take him to the airport, they let go simultaneously.

"Are you certain you don't want to see me to my flight?" John asked holding on to Sherlock's hands tightly. He bit his bottom lip to fight back the tears. Sherlock shook his head solemnly. John drew Sherlock into a bear hug and squeezed him as tight as he could manage. Sherlock met his embrace with the same intensity.

When they let go John felt cold hard reality strike him. The drive to the airport was a blur. John desperately tried to concrete the memories of Sherlock. He wished he had taken a photo. He closed his eyes and tried to remember every detail of his face.

He wringed his hands together and grimaced as subtle details slipped away from him. Sherlock was perpetually fourteen in his mind and he desperately wanted to update the image of the boy that had haunted him for the past ten years.

He was his, he had waited all that time; it was fate that they met once more. He convinced himself that Sherlock would be waiting for him on his return. It didn't ease the nagging doubt in the back of his mind that constantly reminded him that that gorgeous man could have whoever his heart desired. That he chose to be with John over everyone else was the greatest mystery of all.

_All I have done is hurt him and he keeps coming back for more abuse. I swear… we're a lot more alike than he'll ever come to realise._

The near seven hour flight to Qatar was exhausting. John constantly kept nodding off, dreaming he was still in Sherlock's room; then he'd wake up to find himself utterly alone on a civilian 747. His neighbors had failed to show, so he had a whole row of seats to himself. He took the window seat and pressed his head against the side of the plane, he stared out at the sky, and missed Sherlock's bed terribly.

He was about to nod off once more when he was rudely awakened by Major Pike plopping down in the seat next to him.

_Oh no._

John groaned on the inside.

"So… how was the vac?" He asked looking at John intently.

"S'fine." John mumbled, praying he'd leave him alone.

"Didn't see much of you." Pike said smacking his lips together. "You owe me one." John looked at him confused. "Told the guys you hooked up with some bird, covered your arse." John tried not to glare at him.

"Thanks _sir."_ John said snidely. He gritted his teeth. "If you're going to hold this over my head-"

"Just know this kind of behavior won't be tolerated under my command." John sat up and looked at him in shock.

"Y-you… you were the one coming on to me and you're saying… oh that's rich."

"Keep it in your pants, from now on." Major Pike went to stand.

"Go on, tell them." John dared him. "Just know your _secret_ is safe with me. That I'd never hold it over your head or black-mail you with it." John looked out the window. "It's none of their God damned business you know." Major Pike let out a sigh and took the seat next to him once more.

"When did you know?" He asked awkwardly, staring forward.

"It was complicated." Major Pike looked at him intently.

John found himself telling his whole life story to the man. He told him about the night club, sharing a flat with the boy genius, about Greg, Moran, Moriarty, and his relationship with Mycroft Holmes. Pike was riveted with the story, at times he was on the edge of his seat, especially when John described the time when he was holding Moriarty at gun-point with an empty revolver and the sniper's laser was pointed directly at his chest.

"We all knew there was some bad-arse story behind your bullet wound." Pike laughed.

The two men shared a hotel room for the three day lay-over in Doha.

"How did you know?" John finally asked Pike.

"I fantasized about guys more than I did about girls, to the point where I didn't even really fantasize about girls at all." Pike shrugged. "Wasn't too far of a leap. Sure had some bad dates here and there… nothing like you though… that's a real bat shit crazy way to come to terms with your sexual orientation, if you don't mind me saying so."

John laughed. "In retrospect, suppose I could have had it a little easier. Don't think I'd have it any other way though."

"So what lies on the horizon for Captain Watson?" Major Pike asked stretching his arms and lying back on his bed. John looked up at the ceiling.

"Not sure."

"You going to ask him to marry you?"

John rolled over and propped his head up on one hand. "He's not the marrying type… at least I don't think he is."

"Never know until you ask."

"Maybe I'm not the marrying type."

"You're terrified he's going to up and leave."

"Yeah… but…" John let his head drop. "I'll leave that up to him." He sighed.

"Good luck with that." Pike chuckled and started thumbing through his OK! Magazine.

_Sherlock wouldn't give a damn about a piece of paper anyhow. Would he?_

John laid his hands on his chest and stared at the ceiling once more.

_It isn't even really marriage anyhow. We'd be civil union-ed. Hardly romantic. Not that he cares about romance._

John closed his eyes and dreamt of a thousand ways to propose to the madman. None of which made much practical sense, but were amusing nonetheless. John drifted into sleep easily.

When they finally got back to base John was immediately put to work in the hospital. He was pleased to be kept busy during the day. He quickly bartered with some soldiers to get his hands on a laptop with a webcam, which he grossly overpaid for, but to him it was priceless.

For an agonizing week there was no communication between Sherlock and him due to technical issues. When John finally received word from Sherlock he thought he was going to explode through the roof from excitement. When they set up the video link, the image quality was shit at best, but to John it was a miracle seeing Sherlock's face once more.

It was near impossible to set up a reliable audio feed so they stuck to typing back and forth. John looked forward to this part of his day and when he couldn't get to his e-mail or instant messenger on a daily basis he'd became irate and was prone to shouting.

When John was informed he was going to Kabul and would be without internet for a month he cursed and threw a huge fit in the barracks. He was becoming notorious among the ranks for his short temper. Even his superior officers were wary of his short fuse.

John had nothing to fight for before but now all he wanted was the one thing he held dear. He needed his time with Sherlock to defuse. He was a happier person after he had a long conversation with his best friend, though Sherlock did most of the talking. Everything he wrote seemed to go over John's head. How he could deduce such amazing things, from what seemed like nothing, was an absolute wonder. All John could do was remind Sherlock how amazing he was and how fantastic his skills were.

The night before he was to leave for Kabul Sherlock told him about his plans to move back to London. Back to Baker Street.

John was more than ecstatic but sad that he wouldn't be there for the reunion.

"How are you going to explain to Mrs. H we're no longer cousins?" John asked. They had set up video and audio feed for their last night together. The lag was excruciating but it was good to hear Sherlock's voice again.

"Oh, I'll think of something."

"You're lucky she's a saint." John laughed. Sherlock looked pained. "What's wrong?"

"I have to go." Sherlock had been looking at his phone. "Don't get shot." He said turning off the webcam.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Shit." He held his head in his hands. "Love you." He sighed.

**Love you too.**

John read the screen and typed back:

**Asshole.**

John didn't sleep a wink that night. He was loaded on to the lorry at o' dark hundred. His head felt like it was spinning, he was sick to his stomach. It was going to be a miserable ride, he just knew it. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. A few hours into the ride he was beginning to feel increasingly ill.

The back of the truck was dead quiet. It was eerie. Bill Murray sat next to him. The noise of the engine was too loud to hold a good conversation. He merely nodded and Bill nodded back.

John had never been motion sick before but the road seemed bumpier than ever. He was starting to turn green. His stomach lurched all of a sudden and he fell forward. The engine of the lorry cut out and they came to abrupt halt. John heaved several times.

He was more concerned with trying not to vomit on his boots than he was about the sudden stop.

An RPG ripped through the canvas and struck the man across from John. It failed to detonate but hit the man square in the chest. John's blood was instantly turned to ice as adrenaline filled his veins. There was shouting as the company filed out of the lorry and out onto the dark road. John's ears hummed and his chest shivered.

_That rocket would have gone right through the back of my head._

A cold fear washed over him. The lieutenant across from him took a direct hit to the chest. It pierced his battle armor and stuck. John was left with the difficult choice to leave him in case the grenade had a back-up time delay system. John jumped out of the back of the truck and immediately searched for cover. There was nothing but a barren wasteland.

The scene before him was utter chaos. They didn't fight battles in Afghanistan, there were no major victories, there were no rules of war, they could hardly figure out who was the real enemy on any given day. John was disoriented in the dark; he couldn't tell if he was hearing friendly fire. John felt a sharp sting.

He grabbed his right hip and groaned. He dropped to the ground the exact moment an explosion rang out behind him. The concussion from the blast deafened him for what seemed like ages. He stayed down and writhed in pain. He reached back and felt the singe of hot metal.

A bullet had lodged itself in his right buttocks and was cauterizing the surrounding flesh. John clenched his teeth and clamped his eyes shut. He took in deep breaths and started digging the bullet out with his finger tips. He whimpered and grunted trying to get a good hold on the foreign object.

He got a slippery hold on it and pulled. He held the bullet in his shaking bloodied hand for a moment. He said a small prayer and shoved the bullet into his pocket. He brought himself to his feet and limped away from the burning lorry. He was able to find Bill Murray in the light of the fire and kneeled down beside him as he worked frantically on a soldier that had multiple gun-shot wounds.

He recognized the man; he went on the trip with them to Oxford. His eyes were clear and fixed. His last shag was the hefty girl from the bar. John checked his pulse several times; then looked at his watch. He couldn't hear his own voice as he read out the time.

They moved on, unable to take cover, or tell where fire was coming from. When dawn came the shots ceased. John's ears rang and his head ached, his adrenaline was the only thing keeping him going. They surveyed the scene. There were more wounded from the blast than from gun fire. Six dead, thirty-seven injured.

John worked to aid the wounded. He forgot his own injury until Bill Murray pointed out his limp and then in a panic started applying pressure to his arse, which sent a shot of red hot pain right up to John's brain causing him to white out. John couldn't hold back his scream of agony.

"It's cauterized!" John screamed as his vision came back to him. He felt a steady stream of blood run down his leg. He started to become light-headed.

"Oh shit! Oh shit!" Bill Murray helped John to his knees. "I'm so sorry sir." He cried out.

"Oh for God's sake Corporal! You've popped his cherry!" John couldn't help but laugh at the inappropriate comment that rang out in the morning air. Major Pike was worse for wear but was able to help out with John's wound. "Apache's on the way."

John groaned. "It's a flesh wound." He laughed. "I swear." Pike was holding light pressure on the wound but it was bleeding heavily. He felt John's clammy pale skin and shook his head.

"Looks like you just got a ticket to the infirmary."

John let out a loud moan; he fell forward and his head made contact with the ground. He blacked out completely.

He woke up fighting, completely disoriented.

_I've been captured._

He was lifting his hips off the table and was struggling to break five men's grip. He couldn't see straight. His blood suddenly felt warm, his hips dropped and somebody hissed a sympathy pain. They rolled him over, arse sticking straight up in the air, completely exposed. John felt the loopy effects of the sedative. He apologized profusely to anyone who would listen.

He casually asked for Sherlock several times, not remembering exactly where he was. The on-duty RMO didn't know what to make of John and was laughing nervously as he tried to pack John's wound.

John was quite talkative and amiable when he was drugged. He discussed his sex-life in profound detail with the young doctor who was trying to work on John's derrière. He was ordered to keep pressure off the wound while it was healing. John tried to move but felt an excruciating pinching feeling in his hip. He let out a shocked gasp.

When John came to his senses he worked to lift his hips off the hospital bed only to be met by the same pinch that caused pain in his entire leg, locking it up. John groaned in misery.

Billy Murray came by to express his sincerest apologies and John all but begged him for his laptop.

"Don't know if the hospital is equipped with wifi." Bill said trying not to look at John's exposed bum. John let out a low growl.

"Please." He pleaded. Bill said he'd see what he could do. John spent his week in the infirmary being embarrassed by the constant barrage of visitors, none of which he cared for. His neighbour behind the hanging curtain was a complainer. John would draw the pillow over his head and will the world out of existence when his neighbor would fight with the doctors about his treatment. John wished the blast would have ruptured his ear drums so he wouldn't have to listen to another minute of the man's whining.

When John felt he couldn't stand another moment of torture Major Pike showed up with order forms and news. He pulled the pillow off John's head and shoved the papers into his hands. "Lucky bastard." John looked over the papers, his eyes were slightly blurry from lack of use. "You're going home."

John was transported via a RAF aeromedical evacuation team from Camp Bastion to Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham. John underwent physical therapy that was more aggravating than anything. In a short time he was able to walk once more, but not without the nagging reminder that his sciatic nerve was irrevocably damaged.

He was assured that with more therapy, a nerve block, and a few 'minor' surgeries he'd be able to walk again without pain. John glared at his nurse with a fire that could burn through steel. She let him be.

He still had to sleep on his stomach and keep pressure off the wound that was slow to heal. John often felt like bouncing his head off the hospital bed.

_Sherlock thinks I'm in Kabul! I'm so close… yet so far away._

John found it near impossible to sleep on his stomach and when he did manage some much needed sleep he was constantly awoken by nurses coming in and out to check his vitals. John was in a particularly deep sleep when he was awoken by footsteps.

"They just checked me, for Christ's sake!" He groaned.

"John." John's eyes shot open. He was groggy but couldn't mistake the Yves Saint Laurent shoes, the pin stripe trousers, the umbrella. John groaned loudly. The last person he wanted to see him in his state was Mycroft Holmes. John swallowed hard. "How are you?" He asked with a grimace, trying not to look at John's exposed backside.

"Got shot… in the butt…" John said plainly. Mycroft fought back a grin.

"Yes." He said pulling a chair over and taking a seat. "I meant, how are you _feeling_?" John looked around confused.

"Mycroft… I was shot-"

"Yes in the bum, I'm aware." He shook his head. "You've been in contact with Sherlock." He stated more than asked.

"How did y-"

"John, that doesn't matter."

"How did you know I was here?" He finished.

"Oh right." He straightened himself up. He'd aged very little. His hair line had receded only slightly, but he was the same Mycroft. "Your name came across, a fluke really. I don't normally look over casualty reports. The affair in Afghanistan doesn't concern me." Mycroft coughed. "Well… in the sense that it isn't _of_ my concern. I do in fact find it quite concerning." He furrowed his eyebrows in thought, then shook away the notion. He gave John a grin. "So, I hear recovery is slow coming?"

John looked confused. Mycroft looked at the handle of his umbrella intently, working his fingers over its ridges.

"You are looking at being medically discharged. Could take… quite some time I'm afraid." His eyebrows lifted and he let out a small sigh. "I could perhaps… expedite the process?" He looked at John for reassurance. "If that would interest you."

"In exchange for…" John let the question hang in the air. Mycroft looked at him with sympathy.

"My biggest mistake in life, I'm afraid, was letting you go." Mycroft said in a straight forward manner. John closed his eyes wishing he wasn't in such a vulnerable position.

"Mycroft-"

"Hear me out John." Mycroft gulped and went to open his mouth.

"I'm going to propose to Sherlock." John said plainly. Mycroft shut his mouth. He licked his teeth and thought. His face changed with his thoughts. He cocked his brow and pursed his lips.

"Well… you will be needing a ring then, won't you?" He said with a small laugh. He removed the ring from his right ring finger. "It was my fathers, treat it well." He placed the ring in John's hand. John wrapped his fingers around it. "It is yours John." He let a huff escape his nose. "God knows Sherlock won't think to buy you one in return." John slid the ring on to his right ring finger. He looked at it.

"Don't have to go to Mount Doom do I?"

Mycroft smiled gently. "I already delegated that quest to some other hobbits." John laughed for the first time in a while. Mycroft stood up and placed a hand on John's shoulder. His eyes darted to John's arse not too discretely. "I wish to remember you like this, always."

"Weak and defenceless, with my naked arse sticking up in the air?" John asked. Mycroft smiled brightly and laughed wickedly.

"John, you were always a clever one." Mycroft smirked. "Don't let my brother convince you otherwise."

Mycroft left John to his thoughts. He could never begin to comprehend the elder Holmes and he finally decided he never wanted to. Mycroft was to remain one of the great mysteries of life, at least to John.

Come October, John was released, with orders from high. He was weak on his feet and required a forearm cane to get around. He struggled with a slight intermittent tremor in his left hand. He was assigned a therapist that was convinced he had post traumatic stress, when in all actuality he missed the war after being cooped up in an army hospital for so long.

John stood outside Baker Street, not remembering how he got there. His feet had walked on autopilot to the front door. He sucked in a breath and reached to press the door bell. He waited a moment, shifting his weight from leg to leg. He pressed the bell again.

He heard a sound emanating from behind the door. He pressed his ear to the door and could hear Sherlock's voice booming. He pressed the doorbell five more times annoyed before he took to pounding his fist on the door.

"Sherlock! For God's sake! Open up!" He heard no response. He tried the door.

_Locked._

"Sherlock!" He shouted. He was tempted to kick the door in his anger. He huffed and winced at the pain in his right leg. "You bastard! Open the door this instant! Or I'll-"

The door swung open to reveal Sherlock in his dressing gown.

"I called you! I even called your brother! You…" John saw Sherlock staring at the cane.

"Aluminum crutch." He said plainly. He swiped it from John's grasp and John near toppled over. He clutched on to the door jam.

"Sherlock I need that!" He said swiping out for the cane. Sherlock hummed and swatted it through the air.

"Army issue."

"No shit Sherlock!" He shouted leaning into the open doorway. John reached and fell forward on to the floor.

"You were shot." John winced in pain and gripped Sherlock's ankle trying to pull himself up. He clenched his teeth and hissed curses under his breath. "I distinctly remember telling you not to get shot."

"I tried." John hissed.

"Hm… did you really?" Sherlock asked with a pout.

"Well obviously I didn't try hard enough. Help me up you arse." Sherlock twirled the cane in his hand and gave it a thought.

"Your therapist would say you should get up on your own, in a frail attempt regain your independence." Sherlock reached out his hand. John clutched it and started pulling himself up. Sherlock had a spasm and dropped John's hand. John hit the ground hard. "What is that on your hand?" He asked with an uncharacteristic squeak.

"It-"

"I know what it is!" Sherlock shouted indignantly. "What is it doing there?" He near screamed.

"My-"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted breathlessly. He yanked John's hand up and inspected the ring thoroughly. His face showed panic. "B-but John!"

"Sher-"

"No! No words. Shut up!" Sherlock let go of John's hand. John shifted on to one buttock and propped himself onto his elbows. "Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think!" Sherlock raised his hand to his chin and stroked it softly, his brows furrowed in concern. "Face the other way. You're putting me off." He said looking down at John.

"What… my face is?"

"Turn your back."

"Oh for God's sake. If you'd just let me explain." John complained.

"Sh sh." Sherlock hushed. He paced the floor, looking up at the ceiling. He was misty eyed and in a panic. John gritted his teeth.

"Sherlock." He completely ignored John who was sitting uncomfortably on the ground. John laid down flat and withdrew a small box from his pocket. He launched it at Sherlock who caught it before it hit his head. Sherlock looked at the small box without opening it.

"A ring?" He asked John. "Why would you-" Sherlock broke off mid sentence. He stared off into nothingness. "Oh." He flipped open the box to reveal a small silver ring. "Palladium." He said lifting his eyebrows. He shut the box with one hand and stuffed it in his pocket. "You said you were shot?"

"You said I was shot." John corrected. He tried lifting his hips off the floor only to be met with the terrible pinching feeling in his thigh.

"Mystery bullet." Sherlock said. "The shooter would have had to be lying on the ground… even then the bullet would have gone clean through. No." He said pacing the floor. "It wasn't a direct hit. The bullet ricocheted." John pulled out the bullet that he kept in his pocket and gave it to Sherlock who inspected it thoroughly. "Off a hub-cab it would seem… one with raised edges…" Sherlock came to a realization. "A cargo vehicle? Leyland DAF?" Sherlock scrubbed his lips. "They disguised you as cargo, never anticipating an attack on a lorry with a canvas cover. A Trojan horse."

"All that from a projectile that was lodged in my bum."

"And more." Sherlock said handing the bullet back to John.

"Could we discuss this over a cuppa? My leg has gone numb from keeping this position for far too long." Sherlock helped John up and handed him his cane.

He spoke a whirlwind of information about the classified mission and what he could deduce about the shooter from the status of the projectile. From the etching on the bullet to the material it was composed of, he was able to conclude the country of purchase along with the affiliation of the shooter.

"You mean to say that we were attacked by rebel tribesmen? Not members of the Taliban."

"Of course not! The weaponry would have differed significantly. The bullet's origin was Russian. Poorly made might I add. Left over from the Afghan USSR war."

"Amazing." John said with a smile. He sipped his tea eagerly. Sherlock had a way with tea. He wished that Sherlock would bother to fix him a cup more often. Though he doubted he would be treated to such a luxury, even in his invalid state. "You never answered my question." John said looking pointedly at the bulge in Sherlock's pocket. Sherlock brushed his fingers over the box.

"You never asked it." He pointed out.

"Will you ma-"

"Civil union." Sherlock corrected.

"Will you civil union me?" John asked.

"Umm… no." Sherlock responded. He jumped to his feet and pulled out the box and opened it. He slid the ring on to his ring finger. He threw the box to John who barely caught it. Sherlock admired the ring in the light.

"What do you mean no?"

"Well it _is_ just a piece of paper." He said running his thumb over the ring. "I do appreciate the gift though, it is a lovely ring. Palladium of all things." He chuckled looking it over.

"Why won't you enter a civil partnership with me?"

"Don't see the use." He said simply. He grabbed John's cane and looked it over.

"Please?"

"That only works on you, and even then it's hit or miss. No, John Watson, I will not civil unionize you."

"Will you marry me then?"

Sherlock's gaze seemed to peer into John's soul. "Yes." He said after a short deliberation.

"Really?" Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"We'll be first in line at the courthouse."

"You swear?"

"Well… perhaps we'll get in the queue at a leisurely pace. Heaven knows how many gay couples will be gunning to get their marriage license the moment the bloody thing is legal."

"Why would you care if we got civil 'unionized' versus getting married?"

"The principle of the matter." Sherlock shrugged. "A civil partnership is bullocks, a piece of paper. Marriage is a strong concept. Equality and… all that…"

"Amazing speech, Sherlock. You could be the forerunner for gay rights in the UK."

"You think?" John rolled his eyes. "Sarcasm." He grinned. "How long before we can have intercourse?" He asked suddenly. John was taken aback.

"I don't… they didn't…"

Sherlock let out a huff. "I suppose there are other ways to satisfy my primal urges." Sherlock leaned over and gave John a light kiss.

"As long as you're gentle." John said grasping both sides of Sherlock's face. Sherlock thought it over a moment. "Sherlock." John chided.

"All right." He said rolling his eyes. "I promise."

Sherlock's promises proved to be worth their weight in gold. He was gentle with John while he was recovering and that summer, when gay marriage was legalized, Sherlock upheld his promise. That September they were married.

The ceremony was small and private. John's sister was invited but was a no-show. Mycroft was mysteriously unavailable that day, but other than that, everyone they invited came to Baker Street to witness the event.

It just so happened the Baker Street Biddies were meeting at that time so it was highly convenient for the ladies to attend. Mrs. Turner was in tears, Mrs. Hudson's sister beamed proudly, and Mrs. Hudson couldn't help but shake her head. Mike and Molly were there, as a couple. Anderson and Sally were also a couple at the time of the wedding but broke it off a week later when Anderson's wife returned from out of town.

Greg, who had moved up the ranks to Detective Sergeant, was present and accounted for. His wife, who was pregnant… yet again… excused herself from the wedding.

"Says she's come down with summat."

"Hope it isn't serious." Mrs. Hudson cooed over him.

"Yeah… well…" He grimaced slightly and took a drink of champagne. "She's got herself a bad case of homophobia." He joked. The Baker Street Biddies were madly in love with the DS. They thought he was a silver fox and reminded them nothing of their ex-husbands, which delighted them greatly.

Greg pulled John aside at one point. "Are you happy?"

"Erm… yeah?" John responded, unsure what Greg's angle was. Greg pulled him into a bone crushing hug. John felt the wind knocked out of him. He let go and held on to John's shoulders. John saw his eyes were glazed with tears. "Um." John said awkwardly.

"This is more than I could have ever wished for you… I am so…" Greg wiped his tears away and laughed. "God look at me, I'm a wreck." He clutched on to John's shoulders once more. "I am so happy, that you're happy." He drew John into another hug. John gave Greg a pat on the shoulder.

After Greg left, the Baker Street Biddies followed, then Sally and Anderson. Mike was dragged away by Molly when he had had his fair share of liquor and was starting to show off his break-dance moves. John and Sherlock were soon left with Mrs. Hudson who had had a bit too much to drink.

"My boys." She slurred giving them both a hug. "My crazy wonderful boys. You know, I knew all along."

"No you didn't" Sherlock said plainly.

"No… I didn't." She giggled.

"One beer and our poor dear Mrs. Hudson is sloshed." John laughed as Mrs. Hudson started to sway on her feet.

"Here, let me show you the location of your flat." Sherlock said ushering her to the front door.

"I suppose you two'd be wanting to-"

"Yeah." Sherlock said as he helped her out the door and down the stairs. She started singing a sailor's hymn and John knew she'd be in a world of pain when she woke up the next morning. He smiled to himself and sat down in his favourite arm chair.

Sherlock returned shortly. He closed the door and locked it.

"Sherlock."

"I don't want them coming back."

"Anti-social much?"

Sherlock walked hurriedly over to John and swept him up out of the chair and into his embrace. He kissed him like he hadn't seen him in years. John went weak in the knees. Sherlock broke the kiss and John winced.

"Damn my leg!" He shouted. Sherlock laughed. He nuzzled his nose against John's. It was oddly endearing. He slid his cheek against John's and whispered into his ear. "There are other ways to satisfy my primal urges." The clock struck midnight and Sherlock gave John a wickedly suggestive smile. "Happy Birthday, John Watson."


	50. Chapter 50

“You’re late.”

John could make up ten thousand different excuses why he was running late that afternoon but he knew Mycroft would see through every one of them.

“Yes.” John said simply taking the seat across from Mycroft. He winced slightly as he sat down. John anticipated Mycroft’s subtle glance away from him, the pursing of his lips, and the slight shaking of his head. Mycroft pressed his fingers to his right temple and tapped as he looked over the menu.

“Twenty years.” Mycroft hummed. John nodded. “And after all this time, you can’t seem to come up with an idea for a gift.” Mycroft hummed.

It was their eighth wedding anniversary but John counted the years of discontinuation and therefore remarked it as their twentieth anniversary. In his mind it made it more impressive.

_No, I haven’t been putting up with Sherlock’s nonsense for eight years: I’ve been putting up with it for two decades, thank you very much._

“I hear business is booming.” Mycroft said into his menu.

“Yes well… we have your… um.” John paused awkwardly. “We have the Detective Inspector to thank for that.”

“Not a fan of the publicity?” Mycroft chuckled softly.

“Yeah well… people talk.”

“They do little else, John.” Mycroft put his menu down. “Honestly, what the press says shouldn’t worry you so deeply.”

“The press will turn, they always turn, and they’ll turn on Sherlock.”

“Oh, the Boffin Holmes will be the light of the public’s eye for years to come.”

“I just wish he’d keep a low profile.”

“Worried they’ll make him out to be a fraud? That they’ll say he’s _stupid_ or _wrong?_ ”

“That would just make them stupid and wrong. I know he’s for real. Nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time.”

Mycroft held back a smile. “Why must you put so much weight on this anniversary, when you know he could care less?” John frowned and let out a sigh.

“He may not care, but I do.” John said in a ‘so there’ manner. “He deserves something special.”

“Like a swift kick in the pants.” Mycroft mumbled under his breath. John fought back a laugh.

_Yes he does._

But he wasn’t about to go admitting it to Mycroft.

“He really does hate my father’s ring, doesn’t he?” Mycroft asked looking at John’s hand.

“Yes well… he tries pinning it on me. Saying I’m the one who can’t stand to wear it, when I know he can’t stand the sight of it.” John fiddled with the well-worn ring on his finger. Mycroft stared at it pointedly. John nodded and slid the ring off his finger, placing it into Mycroft’s outreached palm. “I take it you have a place for it?” Mycroft nodded. “Congratulations.” John forced a grin.

“Resentment?” Mycroft asked, pocketing the ring.

“No.” John thought a moment. “Just find it hard to wrap my head around.”

“In time, you’ll come to accept it.” Mycroft reassured.

“Just… I never really came to full terms… what exactly my feelings for you were.” He blushed and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s weird seeing you move on, you know?”

“While some men become trapped in time, others must move forward.”

“I just don’t want to see you hurt is all.” John felt an uncomfortable awkwardness creep into his consciousness.  “You’re not made of ice you know.” John let out a deep sigh.

“I appreciate your concern, but I believe I can manage.”

“He has five kids you know.” John reminded him.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“You hate kids.” John put simply. Mycroft looked at him half-lidded. “Plays football.” John added. “Last time I checked-“

“Yes, I know, I hate that too.” Mycroft let out a sigh. “So I don’t approve of everything.”

“Kind of hard not to approve of his children.” John said nonchalantly.

“John, don’t talk me down from this because a terrible little part of you so desperately wants to see me alone and miserable for the rest of your life.”

“It’s not you.” John looked at his menu, not wanting to meet Mycroft’s gaze. “It’s him.”

“You believe you couldn’t handle seeing your childhood friend and your first true boyfriend together?” John shook his head. “Imagine how I feel seeing you with my brother.”

“Touché.” John mumbled.

“We are men.” Mycroft stated. “We will never get over our old scores and resentments. It is these grudges that define us and we will carry them to our graves because we were _never_ meant to be.”

“I don’t hate you.” John said looking up from his menu.

“Nor do I, you.”

“Then it’s settled.” John said setting down the menu and letting out a heavy sigh. “But don’t come limping to me when things don’t go your way.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Like you’ve come to me today?” John blushed slightly, hoping he wouldn’t bring it up. “You’ve been without a limp for five years. Yet today-“

“All right, all right, you’ve got me.” John said dismissing the awkward topic. “But in my defence… it is our anniversary.”

The rest of the lunch date went on without much conflict. They resorted to talking about less touchy subjects, like politics and religion.

John left Mycroft with an awkward handshake and another half-hearted congratulation. He set his mind to the task at hand and made it his mission to hunt down the perfect anniversary gift for Sherlock. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t care, but it was worth a shot. All the sentimental mush made Sherlock highly volatile. Sherlock hated homo-normativity. He despised complex gender roles and wished to remain ambiguous.

The word ‘husband’ would set him off. There was no ‘husband’ or ‘wife’ in their relationship, nor were they ‘husbands’. John had made the mistake of bringing home fresh cut flowers one day. They were immediately plunged into a vat of liquid nitrogen; then shattered into a million pieces on the kitchen table.

“You might as well have given me a terminally ill puppy!” Sherlock shouted. “Here! Enjoy this while you still can! Before it withers and dies!” John would never spend twenty pounds on a bouquet of flowers again.

Sherlock had a strong opinion about anything slightly romantic and usually such acts were met with great detest. Sometimes he just wanted sex and John was much obliged to skip over the romantic foreplay and just indulge the insatiable detective.

Their relationship was confusing at best. Sherlock alternated between giving John the cold shoulder and not speaking for days to not shutting up for hours on end and clinging on to the poor man for dear life, and begging him to never leave. He confused John greatly. He was unpredictable and wild.

Sherlock was so wildly unpredictable you couldn’t even predict that he would be unpredictable and sometimes he’d do exactly what you would predict a person to do. For example: one day John was thoughtful enough to stop by the morgue on the way home and pick up a bag of human thumbs that Molly had set off to the side for him. Sherlock actually thanked John like a decent human being and gave him a peck on the cheek. It was times like these that John became highly concerned that Sherlock was experimenting with drugs.

Sherlock not only confused John to no ends; he also took great joy in messing with the weak and feeble minds of the Scotland Yarders. His favourite target, of course, being DI Lestrade.

“So… it was the boy’s father what did it?” Lestrade asked after Sherlock spelled out a long and mind-numbing description of the murder.

“Yes. Unless he wasn’t the boy’s father, then it wouldn’t be.”

“Wouldn’t be what?”

“It wouldn’t be the father that performed the crime.”

“But it was?” Lestrade asked confused.

“Yes. Or at least he thought he was.”

“You mean to say… it was the boy’s father that killed him, only it wasn’t.” Lestrade tried to clarify.

“Exactly.”

“Now hold on. How could he…” Greg stopped and tried to gather his wits. “Is he the boy’s father or not?”

“Of course he isn’t the boy’s father, look at the turn-ups on his jeans.” On that note, Sherlock left the crime scene, leaving Lestrade to fill out the paper work.

John couldn’t imagine the Detective Inspector and the British Government together, he really couldn’t. Mycroft was more convoluted and mysterious than Sherlock, although the thought seemed impossible. Sherlock was the epitome of mystery but his brother defined secrecy, making him far more enigmatic.

At least with Sherlock there was some hint at what was going on in his head. John could almost read his mind at times. He knew when Sherlock meant the inverse and when he meant what he said.

“John, I can’t possibly sleep now. I’m in the middle of a break through!” Really meant “John if you don’t get me to bed now, I’m going to keel over from exhaustion and I’ll blame you in the morning for not putting me to bed sooner.” And when Sherlock stated he thought a woman’s time was better spent in the kitchen, well unfortunately, he meant Mrs. Hudson should give up at her sad attempt at a love life and make him dinner.

John knew when to read between the lines and when to leave things well alone. They were truly made for one another.

With Sherlock, John was never bored. He’d forget all about his leg when they were on cases together. They were absolutely inseparable.

John could never stay mad at the man for very long. He’d banish him to the sofa, only to find him on top of him the next morning, leg wrapped around his torso, moaning loudly in his ear. He was madly in love with Sherlock.

That is why, on this particular day, he was going to find the perfect gift. Mycroft had given him inspiration, taken away his ring, which suggested he should purchase another. However it didn’t seem like that proper solution to the conundrum.

What could he give Sherlock that would floor him? Make his clothes explode of his body, not that they didn’t already. John rattled his brain, searching for a solution. He stopped in front of a costume shop. Thought a moment and went in.

When he returned home, package in hand, Sherlock met him at the door. He looked at the parcel in John’s hand.

“Present.” He said snatching it away. He looked at the brown wrapping, very confused. John couldn’t help but smile.

“Know what it is?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows and concentrated. He took great pride in being able to deduce the contents of packages, but this one had him baffled. He looked at John, then the package, then back at John again. He looked absolutely puzzled. John was elated.

Curiosity got the better of him and Sherlock finally ripped open the package. “It’s a hat.” He said looking it over. He was thoroughly perplexed. “What kind of hat is it anyway? Is it a cap?” John smiled and took a seat on the sofa while Sherlock started turning the hat over in his hands. “Why’s it got two fronts?”

“It’s a deerstalker.” John held back a laugh and started thumbing through the day’s newspaper.

“How do you stalk a deer with a hat? What are you going to do, throw it?” Sherlock took a stance and made a throwing motion without releasing. “Some sort of death Frisbee?” John was quite pleased with himself. “It’s got flaps. Ear flaps. It’s an ear hat, John.” He threw the death Frisbee to John who caught it between his hands. “I hope you don’t expect me to wear that.”

“No, but I knew it’d have you entertained.”

“On second thought.” Sherlock walked over and grabbed the hat. He put it on and walked over to the mirror.

“You aren’t seriously considering-“

“I could perhaps pull it off… if only just.” Sherlock grinned at his reflection. His face turned sour after a moment. “Well it’s the thought that counts.” He said taking of the cap. He gently set it on top of the skull on the mantel. “Finally did away with that ring, I see.” John looked at his finger as if he’d forgotten.

“Oh yes.” He said, trying to play it cool.

“Mycroft must be devastated.” Sherlock said taking a seat in his chair.

“He was the one that took it back.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said raising his eyebrows. “Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of this week?”  

“I would think not.” John admitted. “It’s Greg, he’ll never go for it.”

“My brother is used to heart break.” Sherlock said casually. He went to grab his violin.

“Wait.” John interjected. “The hat isn’t all I’ve got for you.”

“Did it come with a matching pipe?”

“Nope.”

“Monocle?”

“Give it a real guess.” John chuckled.

“What else would a costume shop carry?”

“Didn’t get it at a costume shop.” Sherlock stood up and made his way over to John. He grabbed the parcel’s wrapping once more.

“You got it near a costume shop… in Battersea.” Sherlock looked over the brown paper packaging. He stepped close to John and started sniffing. John laughed. Sherlock brought his face close to John’s shirt. “You didn’t.” Sherlock said with an air of disgust. He stepped back and looked John over.

“You said-“

“I know what I said but honestly John. It is a big responsibility, one that I don’t believe you are ready for.”

“Plenty of couples-“

“You should have asked!” Sherlock looked at him. “God I hope it isn’t terminally ill.”

“I swear it isn’t. The vet has had him all checked over, he’s up to date on all his shots.”

“They just say that so you’ll pay the fee, no questions asked.” Sherlock sneered. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing! I swear.” John crossed his heart.

“Why would it be in a dog rescue then?”

“He’s retired.”

“Retired? It’s a dog…”

“A former police dog.”

“Bloodhound?” Sherlock asked with a hint of excitement.

“Sort of.” John shrugged.

“Send it back.” Sherlock said turning away.

“Sherlock.” John whined.

“Oh God. Don’t tell me you’ve already formed an attachment with the horrid beast.” There was a rap at the door. “Mrs. Hudson! Go away! I don’t want the stupid thing.” Mrs. Hudson opened the door and a sad looking basset hound hobbled in. “Some present.” Sherlock huffed crossing his arms. “I suppose it came with a name.” Sherlock scowled.

“Gladstone.” John said.

“Toby it is.” Sherlock said defiantly. John laughed.

“You can’t rename him! He’s six years old! He won’t know what to make of it.” John let out a sigh. “All right… you name him whatever you want, he’s your dog.”

After Dumb-arse passed away at the ripe old age of seventeen, there was an empty feeling to the flat. Sherlock would never admit it, but he adored that stupid cat. John thought a dog would fill the void. He was already trained, well behaved, and docile. He would make the perfect companion when John was away, though he didn’t leave often.

“What does it do?” Sherlock asked after a long silence.

“What do you mean, what does it do? It’s a dog for Christ’s sake!” John laughed. Sherlock knelt and lifted each of Toby’s large droopy ears. Toby sneezed. He gave Sherlock a worn out look.

“He has your likeness John.”

“I look like a droopy old hound dog?” Sherlock didn’t respond. John took that as a yes. “Thanks, love you too.” John said and resumed scanning the newsprint. Toby sprung into action, or rather toddled into action, he put his nose flush to the floor and started exploring his new surroundings.

His ears were so long they near dragged on the carpet. His short stubby legs moved with an odd grace as he bounced along the floor, wagging his tail.

“Think he’s on the trail of something?” John asked putting down his paper to watch the hound dog, who had stopped in front of Sherlock’s chair. He planted his bottom firmly on the ground and let out a howl. Sherlock was intrigued. He walked over and shifted the chair across the floor to reveal a stale biscuit that had obviously been there quite some time. Toby gobbled it up and Sherlock plopped down in his chair, severely disappointed.  

John couldn’t help but laugh at the two. Toby seemed exhausted from the excitement, he lay down with a loud ‘oof’ and his eyes immediately started becoming heavy. Sherlock rested his feet on Toby’s back and like that, they had a new member of the family.

Toby wasn’t the loyalist of dogs or the bravest, but he was highly intelligent. He knew how to pull at John’s heart strings and was a well fed fellow. John spoiled him rotten while Sherlock tried to shape him in his image of the perfect bloodhound.

“Sit Toby.” Sherlock commanded. “Sit.” Sherlock repeated. Toby stood defiantly. He started to pant. “Oh you…” Sherlock growled. “Is this how you get your kicks? You are a mockery!” He shouted. “How dare you call yourself a _hound!”_ Sherlock put his hands on his hips and scowled at the beast. “I’ve seen better obedience from a cat!” Toby’s ears perked up. “Yes that’s right, a mangy little feline has… Toby!”

Toby walked away from Sherlock and to John who was in the kitchen tearing open a fresh packet of treats.

“Sit Toby.” John said gently. Toby sat. Sherlock growled. He walked over to the sofa, threw himself on it, and began having a proper sulk. “Sherlock if you’d-“

“Stop inflicting your opinions on the world!” Sherlock shouted and pressed his face into the cushion. He let out deep sighs and John ignored him. The sighs rattled in Sherlock’s throat and turned into groans. John turned to look at Sherlock who appeared to be in turbid agony.

“Sherlock.” John complained. Toby whined at John who was holding the treat in his hand. “Sorry boy.” John said feeding him the treat. Sherlock grumbled something from the sofa. “I do not love the dog more than you!” John shouted handing Toby another treat. He patted Toby’s head and Sherlock started groaning incessantly loud and whining. “Well if you listened half as well as Toby, perhaps you’d get…” John checked the package. “Lamb and beef liver treats.” John made a face and looked at Toby who was licking his chops. “Yum.” He grimaced.

John walked over to Sherlock with Toby in tow. “Want one Sherlock?” John teased. Sherlock rolled over and glared at him. He grabbed the bag from John’s hand and looked over the back.

“Key ingredients: Lamb, lamb liver, beef, and beef liver. Thirty-percent moisture.” Sherlock read. He looked up to catch a glimmer of something in John’s eyes. Sherlock grinned in response. John licked his bottom lip.

“You gonna eat that?” John giggled. Sherlock smirked, John knew he couldn’t back down from a dare. He threatened to pop one in his mouth and John stopped him. He felt like his ribs were going to split from laughter.

The two men were forever teenagers at heart.

They would eventually retire on a small farm on the Sussex Downs. Sherlock would fulfill his lifelong wish of living among the bees, however he won’t do so as a hermit as he had once wished. Nor will he have amassed his small fortune from drug smuggling and prostitution. He will set aside the dull and dreary task of financial upkeep to his trusted companion, John of course.

Sherlock will get in a huff when his book, the _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture,_ will fail to meet the mass market he intended. Sherlock won’t be upset because of the public’s lack of interest in the bees, but rather will be cross at their seemingly unwarranted interest in John’s book, _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._ In which he details all of their greatest cases, including the unsolved ones.

“Oh, why’d you have to go and mention the unsolved ones?” Sherlock will whine.

“People want to know you’re human.”

“Why?”

“Cos they’re interested.”

“No they’re not.” Sherlock will pout. “Why are they?”

“Look at that. Eight hundred ninety-five copies sold, since just this past Tuesday. This is your living, Sherlock. Not twenty thousand species of bees.”

“Nineteen thousand, two-hundred. Do your research.”

For now, Sherlock and John seemed light years away from bickering about books and bees. They had a good many years ahead of them and many adventures to fill the pages of John’s book.

John reached out and stroked Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock matched his movements, running his long fingers through John’s short sandy hair. Toby grabbed the packet of treats and tottered off with them to give the men some privacy.

John leaned down and caught Sherlock’s lips in his own. Sherlock’s pocket buzzed and both men groaned. Sherlock pulled out his mobile.

His eyes flittered across the screen a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. John grabbed the newspaper on the coffee table and let out a sigh.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same.”

“Four.” Sherlock smiled.

“And there’s something different this time?” John inquired.

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yeah.”

“This one did.” Sherlock sat up quickly. He was practically wiggling with excitement.

“Where?”

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” Sherlock bit his bottom lip to hold back a squeal of joy. He jumped up and on to his feet. “Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!” He made fast pace to his coat hanging on the back of the door. He started wrapping his scarf around his neck.

“So you’re off then?” John asked with a hint of hurt in his voice.

“Impossible suicides? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something _fun_ going on!”

“Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent.” John held back a smile at Sherlock’s rambunctiousness.

“Who cares about decent? The game is afoot!” Sherlock threw on his coat and turned up the collar. He grabbed the deerstalker cap and fitted it snuggly on his head. “Come, Toby!” Sherlock shouted with a whistle. Toby begrudgingly hobbled over to Sherlock’s side, his tummy was full of treats. He yawned as Sherlock fixed the lead on his collar. Sherlock opened the door and started to head out. He turned on his heels in the doorway. “Well?” he asked.

John looked around. “Well what?”

“Coming?”

“If you want me to…” John said sheepishly.

“Of course.” Sherlock grinned brightly. “I’d be lost without my husband.”

In that precise moment, all was right with the world, and everything was as it should be.

Because now when someone says Sherlock Holmes, the first thing that comes to mind is

_John Watson_


End file.
